A Darker Shade of Grey
by lulu-ny
Summary: After noticing an awful lot of exact details and similarities in my book and 50 Shades, I realized EL James and I have a lot in common aesthetically. But I thought Ana was too naive and ignorant for a 21-year-old woman so I'm rewriting only the scenes that bothered me. Here goes . . .
1. Part 1

8

8

Okay, I'll try it. Since I wrote a book two years ago and then a few months ago read 50 Shades and found so many identical things in her books that appear in mine, I figure the EL James and I have a lot in common—too much, in fact.

One thing that continually bothered me about 50 Shades was how naïve and gullible Anastasia was. Being only 21 and a virgin doesn't necessarily equate with total ignorance (I mean, even virgins know when they are physically attracted to someone, right?) So I personally would rewrite her part. I think Christian is perfect as he is. I just wish he hadn't lost all his teeth (I of course speak figuratively) by the end. I liked Dominant Christian, damn it.

I'm only rewriting those scenes that annoyed me. Here goes and please let me know what you think. The first one is not very different from the original but I wanted to give Anastasia a bit more dignity and grace. I mean, falling into a room? Really? I know Bella was stupidly clumsy and that's why James wrote Ana like that but no one is _that_ clumsy.

Damn Kate, I think, as I speed down the interstate. She recruited me to do her interview at the eleventh hour—okay, so she had a good excuse being horribly ill and all—and now I'm going half-assed to interview this paragon of industry, Christian Grey, and I don't know a thing about the man. Is he young or old? Was he born wealthy or is he self-made? What is his background? Ethnicity? Race? I know nothing.

At least Kate loaned me her Mercedes, I console myself, as I accelerate in my high-heeled boots. In my crappy little VW, I have to take off my shoes to drive. Through the windshield, I scan the sky over Seattle. The clear weather is holding out but if the forecast can be believed, it will be pouring by the time I finish the interview. I better conduct it tout de suite and get my little butt home in time for work, I think. I park the car in the underground garage at Grey Enterprises and briskly head to the elevator and lobby floor.

The first thing I notice is how impeccably all the Grey personnel are dressed. I send a quick thank-you to the sartorial gods for making sure I borrowed one of Kate's suits at the last minute. I almost wore my hideous brown Wal-Mart skirt because it's the only business-like attire I own. Kate's sharp little navy blue suit fits me perfectly. Then again, everyone looks good in Prada. The skirt is short and pleated, making my legs look even longer, and the jacket is cut short and tailored. Under it I'm wearing her white cashmere sweater. My black high-heeled Ken Cole ankle boots are a little edgy for the outfit but I don't like to borrow shoes—too personal—and the boots are the only heels I own.

Though I know I look good today—Kate always insists I'm a babe and today she even whistled when I asked for her opinion—I still feel scruffy compared to the blonde goddess behind the reception desk. If she has a single hair out of place, I'll eat Kate's Hermes scarf. She looks at me politely as I saunter up to her, feeling like Medusa with my wild, disobedient hair. It's pulled back but so many tendrils have escaped the tie I must look half-crazed by now.

"Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanaugh to meet with Mr. Grey?"

The blonde smiles and picks up the phone. "Andrea, I have a Ms. Anastasia Steele for Ms. Kavanaugh. She has an appointment with Mr. Grey. Yes, fine." She looks at me. "You can go up, Ms. Steele. Fifth floor."

"Thank you," I say, wondering how she could afford such nice clothes on a receptionist's salary. I need someone to teach me how to score upscale clothes on a shoestring budget. The elevator silently whisks me to the fifth floor and as the doors slide open, more perfect blond women greet me.

First, a nervous young blonde asks me to take a seat. I do, and a few minutes later, another really gorgeous tall blonde comes over to me. What the hell is it about Grey and blondes? Is it even legal to hire only people with blond hair?

"Ms. Steele? Hello, I'm Andrea Stewart, Mr. Grey's assistant. Mr. Grey will be with you momentarily I apologize for the delay." She pauses. "Did Olivia offer you any refreshment?"

"No," I say and she frowns. I hope I don't get Blonde No. 1 one in trouble. Blonde No. 2 looks annoyed and asks, "What may I offer you?"

"A glass of water would be welcome," I say, sitting back and placing my satchel down. Andrea disappears into another room, returning with my water. I have time to take a single sip before the double doors open and a really good-looking African-American man strolls out smiling. Right before the doors close, he adds, "Golf next week, Grey. See you then." He smiles at me as we lock eyes. Nodding, he says goodbye to the two blondes as he rings for the elevator.

"You can go in now, Ms. Steele. Right through the double doors—no need to knock."

"Thank you." I pick up my satchel and head for the doors. Pushing them open with force and finding they open easily, I almost lose my balance. Thankfully, I catch myself in time to enter the room with a shred of dignity though I do sort of plunge in head first. And then I gasp . . . possibly audibly.

He's sitting behind an enormous desk . . . and he's young and utterly gorgeous. This is Christian Grey? Never would have guessed. Judging from the sleek surroundings of his company and the women who work for him, I pegged him at about forty years old, blond, and heavily tanned. This man has got to be under thirty, with luscious dark hair, light eyes, and perfect angular features. He stands as I walk to the desk, cursing my now-shaking legs. Wow, he's tall, too.

"Ms. Kavanaugh? It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Christian Grey."

"Oh, um, actually my name is Anastasia Steele. I apologize for Ms. Kavanaugh. She was unable to conduct the interview due to illness. I will be filling in for her. I hope it's acceptable to you, sir?"

He focuses a penetrating gaze on me and then smiles slightly, as if he is privy to a joke I'm not in on. He walks around his desk and extends his hand to shake mine. As soon as our hands touch, I feel a bolt of energy rocket up my arm. What the hell? He gestures for me to step over to the huge white couches on the other side of the cavernous room. I do so, and as I walk, I look around. On the far wall is a series of small paintings, all grouped together, each one a different vegetable painted with great attention to detail and lush color. They're brilliant and he sees me gazing at them.

"A local artist. Trouton."

"Just beautiful—raising the ordinary to extraordinary."

"My sentiment exactly." He cocks his head and looks at me strangely even as he agrees with my appraisal. "Please have a seat, Ms. Steele."

"Thank you." I perch gingerly on the edge of the couch and remove the small recorder from my bag. My hands are shaking and I'm breaking out in a cold sweat. Christian Grey is seriously unsettling me.

"May I tape the interview, Mr. Grey?"

"Certainly. Are you a colleague of Ms. Kavanaugh's?"

"Not quite. Actually we are roommates at WSU . . . um, friends, actually." I'm normally quite articulate but for some reason I'm nervous and shaky in this man's presence. Probably because he's rich and powerful and gorgeous? Yes, that's probably why. I pull out Kate's questions after I set up the recorder.

I ask the first question and if I'm not mistaken, Mr. Grey looks disappointed. He begins to answer. I cross my legs and that seems to distract him and he pauses. I prompt, "You were saying, Mr. Grey?"

He continues, giving me a long-winded response about how he feels he's earned the right to so much power. His business ethic may be solid but the man has a titanic ego. Still, I guess someone who looks like he does and is fabulously wealthy to boot is entitled to one.

Dutifully following Kate's questions down the list, I barely register exactly what I'm asking him. As I blurt out the next one, it's only afterward I realize what I've asked him.

"Are you gay, Mr. Grey?"

The look I get in response is smoldering anger yet he quickly retrieves his composure. Mine, however, goes sailing out the big picture window. I stutter, "I apologize, sir . . . um, I just read the question here on the list . . ."

"Those aren't your questions?"

"No, they're Kate's, I mean Katherine's, Ms. Kavanaugh's," I stumble.

"No, Anastasia, I am not gay," he finally answers, fire blazing in his eyes. Shit, I know he's pissed. Quickly, I move on to the next question, anxious to be through with this interview.

Finally, it's done. I'm packing away my things as his assistant Andrea comes in. "Mr. Grey, sorry to intrude but your next appointment is in two minutes."

"We're not done here, Andrea. Please reschedule my next appointment."

The woman's mouth drops open and she just gapes at him. He raises his brows, looking at her, and she immediately flushes and stammers, "Of course, Mr. Grey," and then retreats.

Good, so it's not just me, then. I clear my throat. "I'm actually done, Mr. Grey. Please don't rearrange your schedule on my account."

"I just answered your questions," he replied. "I think it's only fair you answer mine."

I lean back into the couch, appraising him. I feel a little more comfortable now—my legs are under me again, and I can afford to allow myself the luxury of ogling this spectacularly gorgeous man. After all, I'll never see him again after today.

He is sitting, his expression impassive, with his fingers steepled under his chin. "I'm interested in you, Ms. Steele. What are you studying, if not journalism?"

"Trust me, Mr. Grey, there's nothing of interest in my story. I study literature, British specifically."

"What do you plan to do when you graduate . . . I'm assuming you're graduating with Ms. Kavanaugh in two weeks?"

"Yes. I don't have plans beyond next week's exams, frankly," I reply. Should I mention we're moving to Seattle? Nah, why bother? He wouldn't possibly be interested in me. But I'm interested in him, or more specifically, my body is interested in his. It's been going haywire since the moment I stumbled through the doors.

"You can apply for an internship here. We run quite a good program."

I almost laugh, thinking how out of place I would be. "I don't think I'd fit in here, honestly."  
"Why not?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

He actually looks offended. I have to say something so I try for humor. "Well, for one thing, I'm not blond."

He doesn't smile; instead he focuses his penetrating gaze on me and I feel as if he can see right through me. I've got to go.

"I really need to be going, Mr. Grey. I have a long drive ahead of me."

He glances out the window. "You're not driving back to Vancouver today?"

"Yes, sir. I am." I stand, extending my hand. "Thank you for being so gracious and accommodating with the last-minute change. Ms. Kavanaugh will be so pleased." I turn toward the door and feel him walking just behind me. As we near the double doors, he reaches his hand over to open them.

"Just ensuring you make it safely through the doors," he says, his eyes twinkling.

"That's very kind of you," I snap, my cheeks growing hot.

Smiling at my discomfort, he escorts me to the elevators and I see the two blondes look up startled as we emerge. Grey rings for the elevator. When the doors slide open, I rush through them, grateful to be leaving the intensity of this man's presence. I turn around to face him one last time. God, but he is just utterly breathtaking.

"Anastasia." He makes my name sound sexual the way it drips out of his mouth.

"Christian," I reply, though he never gave me permission to use his given name. Well, he used mine and I never gave him permission, either. And then the doors slide closed and I'm on my way out of the glass and steel monolith that is Grey Enterprises.

I can finally breathe again.


	2. Part 2

7

7

Hi everyone! Thanks so much for reading. I'm glad you like my take on Ana. She's really more like my character, Olivia. I wrote a two-book story about two and a half years ago. I've been sending it out to agents and publishers ever since, with no success. A few months ago I heard about 50 Shades, started the first book, and almost had a coronary: though the stories were different, the details were exactly the same! For example, here's my description of Derek Girardi, Olivia's hot, young father—he's over six feet tall, dark hair, gray eyes, wears white linen shirts and black jeans, drives a black Audi . . . sound familiar? There's a lot more of the same though I changed a few subsequently. Anyway, that's why I decided to post my book on the 50 Shades fanfiction, since there's dozens of these same similarities. Do me a favor: if you like the writing on A Darker Shade of Grey, please check out the first book, Complements (under Twilight) and the sequel, Force of Nature (under 50 Shades). Meanwhile, I'll keep writing as long as you keep reading. It's great to know you're all out there! Lulu XOXO

(continued)

It's a madhouse at Clayton's but then Saturdays usually are. The crowd finally thins out about noon and I sit down to eat the remnants of my bagel. Mrs. Clayton asked me to collate the orders that came in via the web site so I'm doing that while I eat—multitasking, you know. For some reason, I feel eyes on me so I look up and almost choke on my everything bagel: standing there, looking utterly glorious, is one Christian Grey. He's wearing blue jeans and a chunky cable knit ivory sweater and his gray eyes are piercing right through me.

"Mr. Grey," my voice comes out sounding strangled.

"So we meet again, Anastasia. It's nice to see you."

"Yes, nice to see you, too. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I need a few things, thank you."

I move out from behind the register and lead him to the sales floor. "What can I help you find?"

"To start with I need some cable ties," he says, smiling wickedly.

Hmm, what's that all about, I wonder, as I lead him to Aisle 4: cable ties, cables, power surge protectors, etc. I try to act and converse normally even though my heart is beating so ferociously I think it may go into arrhythmia. "Are you in Portland on business?"

"Yes. I'm here to resolve some funding issues with the agricultural program I sponsor at WSU," he answers readily.

Oh. I show him to the cable ties and he selects the largest ones available. "Anything else, Mr. Grey?"

"Some rope, I think."

"Any particular kind?"

"Natural filament would be preferable," he answers, that smile still plastered on his face. Why do I get the feeling he's having a joke at my expense? I take him to the rope aisle and show him the selection and he chooses the type he wants. I measure out the footage, cut it, loop it, and hand it to him.

"Nice knot. Girl scout?"

"Organized activities were never my thing."

"What is your thing, Anastasia?"

"Call me Ana, please. Primarily my thing is literature: I love the English classics—Austen, Hardy, the Bronte sisters, you know."

"I see," he says, stroking his chin. Why is he even interested?"

"Ana!" I hear someone yell. I turn to see Paul Clayton, the owner's younger brother, running to me. "How are you? I just got back," he says, as he sweeps me into a hug. I look back at Grey and his expression is feral. What's going on here?

"Uh, Paul, this is Christian Grey. I'm assisting him right now."

Paul looks taken aback. "The Christian Grey, Seattle's most eligible bachelor?"

Christian Grey frowns. Obviously that tag annoys him.

"Yes, Paul, the same," I answer quickly. "Mr. Grey, this is Paul Clayton, the store owner's brother."

Grey reluctantly shakes his hand. Paul looks uncomfortable and takes his leave, saying, "Ana, please take good care of Mr. Grey. It's very nice to meet you, sir."

Grey nods curtly and I turn my attention back to him. "Anything else you need, sir?"

"What do you suggest?" he asks with a sly smile.

"For a DIYer?"

He nods yes, barely able to contain his laughter. Okay, now I'm sure he's having a joke at my expense but what the hell is it? There's a double entendre lurking somewhere about but I'll be damned if I know what it is. This Grey guy really gets under my skin but I can't stop ogling his masculine beauty—talk about eye candy.

Okay, Grey, two can play at the same game: I brazenly look him up and down. "How about coveralls? You wouldn't want to ruin your clothes." I almost lick my lips but my bravado escapes me quickly.

He looks straight at me when he says. "I can always take them off."

Okay, he's better at this game than I am. I instantly blush, my cheeks getting hot. He takes pity on me.

"Okay, coveralls. Heaven forbid I ruin any clothing. Lead the way."

I do and he selects a pair quickly. He trails me back to the register so I can ring up his purchase. I can feel his eyes scrutinizing me the whole time.

"How's the interview article coming along?"

"Oh, I think Kate is quite happy with it. Thank you. I know the one disappointment she's had is that she has no original photo to publish with the piece."

"Does she want to schedule a photo shoot? I'll still be in town in the morning."

I smile broadly, thinking Kate will be over the moon. His eyes widen and he looks startled for a moment. "Kate will be thrilled. That's so generous of you, Mr. Grey. Thank you."

He removes a card from his wallet. "My cell number is on the back. Call me by nine a.m. if you want to go ahead with it."

I nod vigorously. "Okay, thanks again, Mr. Grey. Hope your project goes well."

He looks confused at first but then catches up. "Oh, thanks. And, by the way, Anastasia, I'm very happy Ms. Kavanaugh couldn't make the interview."

With that comment he slings the bag over his shoulder and strolls out the door, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.

Okay, I like him. More than like him. In fact, I've never felt this way about any man. It figures: leave it to me to fall for a stunningly handsome billionaire who is miles out of my league, hell, we're not even in the same universe. Well, if I can organize the photo shoot, at least I'll get to see him again and I can stare all I want. I call Kate quickly to tell her the good news.

"But what was he doing at Clayton's?" she asks. Kate is like a bulldog with a bone when she sinks her teeth into something.

"He said he's handling some funding issue at WSU."

"Okay, that sounds legit but, still. Why would he be shopping at Clayton's when he lives in Seattle? And doesn't he have staff to do menial things like that?"

"I truly don't know, Kate. I wondered about that myself."

"Ana, it's very clear to me: he likes you. He was at Clayton's to see you. It's patently obvious."

"Kate, how would he possibly know I work here? Listen, I've got to go. It's getting busy now. I'll talk to you when I get home."

I hang up and consider what Kate said. I have to admit it was strange that he decided to shop here. Maybe he does like me? But why, when he could get any woman in the continental U.S. and beyond with the snap of his fingers? While I'm aware that I'm fairly decent looking, there's nothing very special about me.

And if he did come to see me specifically, how in hell did he know that I work at Clayton's? That's the question of the day.

AFTER THE SHOOT:

I'm having coffee, actually, tea, with Christian Grey and wondering how I came to be sitting here with him. Well, I know how I came to be here but I'm confused as to why he's so interested in me. He seems to find me fascinating and try as I might, I cannot figure out why.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking," he says, interrupting my thought progression.

"Right now, I'm thinking that this is my favorite tea and I'm glad they serve it here.

He says nothing and just stares. We've been sitting here for nearly an hour and I have to get back home to hit the books. Still, I hate to leave for I know I'll probably never see this hottie again.

"I should get going," I say reluctantly, "I have exams next week."

"Of course," he replies and we get up to leave. When we emerge from the restaurant, he takes my elbow. "Come, I'll walk you back to the hotel garage."

"Thank you."

He'd been quizzing me in the café about the men in my life. First, he asked if Paul Clayton was my boyfriend; then, he asked if I was dating Jose. I feel justified in asking a personal question of my own, so I muster my nerve and swivel my gaze over to him. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

He smirks. "No, I don't, Anastasia. I don't do the girlfriend thing."

What the hell does that mean, I wonder? He told me he's not gay so . . . does it mean he's celibate? There goes my fantasy, damn it. I was thinking I might have finally found someone worthy of my virginity.

I had just stepped off the curb, my mind on his enigmatic response to my question when all of a sudden, Christian shouts, "Ana!" and pulls me back onto the sidewalk and I practically fall into his arms. A speeding bicycle whizzes right by my nose, going down the block the wrong way. Oh, he saved me from being run over—he's gallant, too.

Mmm, he smells good. I like being this close to this hunky beauty . . . but, mentally sighing, I disengage from him. "Wow, thanks for saving me from the mad bicyclist," I laugh.

"Idiot was going the wrong way. I'm just glad I was fast enough."

We cross the street. "Well, here we are. Thank you so much—for the photo shoot and for the tea. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grey. By the way, just out of curiosity: why haven't you asked me to call you Christian?"

"Only my family and close friends call me by my given name. I prefer formality."

"Oh, I see. It's only fair, then, for you to address others by their surnames, as well."

"True, Ms. Steele, very true. Good luck on your exams," he says, but his expression tells me he wants to say something else.

"Thanks. Goodbye, Mr. Grey."

He nods and I go down into the bowels of the Heathman, feeling so inexplicably depressed, as if I lost something I never had in the first place.


	3. Part 3

12

12

I put down my pen. I've just finished my last exam, writing a three-page essay on the concept of feminism in Austen's Pride and Prejudice. To say I feel a giant burden being lifted off my shoulders is a huge understatement.

And tonight we're going out to a bar to celebrate the end of finals, the end of college, and our new life in Seattle. Jose is droopy because he's sad to see us go: he still has a year to go at WSU. Kate and I, however, are raring to get on with life.

When I get back to the apartment, Kate has already started packing for our move. Her dad bought us a condo in one of the best nabes in Seattle and we're scheduled to move in next weekend after commencement.

"Oh, Ana, a delivery came for you."

"Really? Who from?"

"I don't know. There was no name on it; it's from Amazon."

I walk to the table and examine the package. "Weird," I say, as I go to grab scissors to cut open the packing tape. I slit open the box and sitting inside are three books by Thomas Hardy. On top is a quote from Tess, one of the books contained in the box. Who sent these to me?

I examine the first one, turning to the copyright page and I nearly faint. "Kate, these are first editions! Shit, they must be worth a small fortune."

Kate gets on her laptop and quickly checks Amazon. "They have one listed at fourteen grand, Ana. Guess we know who sent them, then."

I nod. Has to be Christian Grey. But why? And what's the cryptic quote all about? He keeps warning me off him but it's not as if I'm beating down his door. He's the one who keeps dropping into my world.

"Well," I shrug, "obviously, I can't and won't keep them. I don't know what's he's thinking."

"He is an odd one but at least now it's been unequivocally established that he likes you, Ana. Oh, by the way, Jose called. He's going to meet us at Ichabod's at eight."

"Sounds good. I'm going to take a nap and then a shower. Wake me by six if I'm not up yet."

"Will do."

By nine o'clock tonight we're all at the bar and a couple of other friends from school have joined us. I'm on my third Margarita. I've never gotten drunk before in my life, but graduating college definitely warrants a first time. I get up and only then realize just how woozy I am.

"Whoa. I'm going to go to the restroom. Be back in a minute."

"Are you okay, Ana?" Jose asks, his words slurring. I laugh because he's asking me if I'm okay when he's just as tanked as I am.

"Yeah, I think I may have had a bit too much to drink."

"Ana, order us a pitcher of beer on your way back," Kate shouts out.

I nod, not wanting to scream over the din of the bar. I walk unsteadily to the restroom and of course there's a line—there's always a line for the women's room and the men's room is smooth sailing, no matter when or where you go.

I'm standing there thinking about the books Christian Grey sent when my phone buzzes. I look at the number and it's unfamiliar. Curiosity propels me to answer it.

"Hello?" I know I'm also slurring my words and I hope it's not someone important. But no one important would call me at this hour, surely?

"Anastasia? This is Christian Grey. I'm calling to ask if you got the books I sent you."

"Mr. Grey? Oh, yes. I did receive the books but I can't accept them, of course."

"Are you okay, Ana? You sound strange."

"Me, strange? You're the strange one, Mr. Grey. Why did you send me the books?"

"Where are you? I'm coming to get you right now."

What? Is he insane? "I'm in a bar in Portland," I slur. "Okay, bye."

"Which bar, Ana?"

"Forget it, Christian. I'm fine and I don't need rescuing. I'll send the books to your office. Goodbye." I disconnect the call just as my turn to go into the bathroom comes up. Perfect timing.

He really is strange. He seems to be interested in me, but then when he has the perfect opportunity to kiss me—when he pulled me into his arms that day—he doesn't take it. And then he tells me he doesn't do the girlfriend thing, whatever that means. Topping it all off, he sends me expensive books with a warning in the form of a quote he pulled from one of the books. I'll admit it was a very apt quote.

Now to add insult to injury, he wants to save me from myself? He's coming to pick me up? Really?

He's not serious, I think. First off, he's in Seattle and second, I never told him what place I'm in. Whatever. I make my way to the bar and order a pitcher of beer and head back to our table.

"Kate," I shout, "I ordered the beer. I'm going outside for some air. Okay?"

She nods and yells "Lightweight," smiling and looking as happy as a clam. As for me, I feel as sick as a dog . . . do dogs actually feel sick? Where did that expression come from anyway? My head hurts.

I weave through throngs of hot, sweaty bodies and finally burst through the door into cool night air.

Leaning against the brick wall, I see Jose coming toward me. "Ana, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine, Jose. I drank too much, I think, so I came out here for air." I watch as he comes closer, too close, in fact. "What's up, Jose?"

"Ana," he's right in front of me now and he puts his hands on my waist, pulling me toward him.

"Jose, what are you doing?" I hear a bud of panic in my voice. What is in the air tonight?

"Ana, you know how I feel about you. Please, Ana, just give me a chance," he leans in to kiss me. I smell the alcohol on his breath and my stomach does a little flip. I'm done with drinking forever probably.

"No, Jose. It's not like that with us," I say in a strident voice, pushing him away. Damn, he's strong. He won't budge and he's still trying to kiss me. "No, Jose. I don't want to do this," I say it loud and clear but he's not backing off.

A voice rings out of the night, "I believe the lady said no."

Jose stiffens, immediately releasing me. He turns just his head and says, "Grey."

Christian Grey steps forward, giving me the once over and at that exact moment, the bile rushes up my throat. I have time enough only to run over to the retaining wall and hurl right over it into the bushes. Oh, this is just dandy. Can this night get any better?

Grey is beside me almost instantly, grabbing my hair with both hands and holding it back for me. "If you have to vomit again, at least your hair won't get in the way."

I glance up to see a look of disgust on Jose's face and I glare at him. "I'm going back in, Ana. I'll see you later."

We both ignore him. Grey steps around to my front to appraise me. "I'm going to drive you home now."

"No," I shake my head. "I have to at least tell Kate I'm leaving."

"Kate is with my brother, Elliot. I'll text him and let him know."

"No, I'm going back inside," I say and step out of his reach, pulling my hair out of his hand. Can this night get any more embarrassing? He's just seen me upchuck and I don't really feel in the mood to have him drive me home. How did he even find me here? Freaking stalker.

I make it through the doors and somehow get to our table, only to find Kate gone. Our friend James shouts to me, pantomiming dancing. "Kate's on the dance floor."

I nod and shout back. "Okay, I'm leaving. I'll tell Kate on my way out."

Christian takes my elbow and leads me to the bar where he orders me a drink of ice water. He's served immediately. It must be nice to be rich and imposing; everywhere you go you get deferential treatment.

"Drink it, all of it," he says, handing me the glass.

I do as he instructed and surprisingly, it makes me feel a little better. I try wending my way through the dancers to get to Kate, but the effort makes me dizzy and nauseous again. He sees it and says in my ear, "I'll go tell Elliot we're leaving. I'll be right back. I watch as he gracefully moves through the bodies and see him say something to a big blond guy. In seconds he's back at my side.

"Okay, Kate knows you're leaving. Let's go."

I take his arm, letting him guide me outside and wonder what the hell I'm doing and what he could possibly be after with me. As soon as he sits me inside his pretty little sports car, I'm out, totally unconscious.

The next thing I know, I wake up in his bed.

The morning sun is streaming through the window, and I open my eyes and immediately squint. Where the heck am I? I look around at the unfamiliar surroundings. Wherever I am, it's nice. Really nice.

Wait, it does look familiar; it looks like the room where we held the photo shoot, only bigger. The only bigger suite was the one taken by Mr. Grey himself, or so the concierge told us. So . . . that means . . . oh, no.

I'm in Christian Grey's suite! I'm in Christian Grey's bed! I look under the covers. I'm in my underwear! I clutch my head.

Oh, right, the drinking–never again, I promise myself, God, and the universe; I never want to feel like that again.

Then there was Jose trying to force his tongue down my throat. He'll pay for that dearly and soon. Oh, and can't forget Christian Grey coming to the rescue. My white knight. How the hell did he find me? And now? Now I wake up in his bed in my underwear? I wanted to be awake when I lost my virginity.

There's a knock at the door and it opens before I can even respond. He comes in wearing a black tee shirt and gray sweats. His hair is slick with perspiration. Mmm, he's been working out. Does this man ever look crappy, for God's sake? I want to launch myself at him and get all sweaty too.

Anastasia! I scold myself. He doesn't "do the girlfriend thing," remember?

"What am I doing here?" I ask plaintively.

"I didn't want you to vomit on my leather upholstery so I brought you here; it was closer."

"Oh, so sorry if I put you out but if you may recall, I NEVER ASKED YOU TO PICK ME UP. And why am I in my underwear?"

"Your pants were spattered with your vomit. I sent them to be cleaned."

"All the more reason for me to have gone home where I have clean clothes. Now what am I supposed to wear, Mr. Grey?"

"I sent Taylor out for some clothes for you. They'll fit."

I look at him. Boy, is he handsome. "I'm not sure if I should thank you or file charges against you," I say jokingly but he looks startled. I smile and I see one fighting to break out on his lips.

"I'm going to take a shower, unless you want to take one first?" he asks.

I'm sorely tempted to ask him to just take a shower with me. For some reason, Christian Grey makes me feel brazen. "No," I say demurely, "you can take one first. It is after all your suite. Um, one question first. We didn't . . .?"

"No," he looks offended. "I like my women sentient and responsive."

"Sorry," I say sheepishly. "Where did you sleep?

"In the bed, with you."

"Oh."

"It was a first for me."

"Sleeping with a woman without having sex?"

"No. I never sleep with anyone," he says, and leaves me with that thought, strolling into the bathroom to take his shower.

What is he all about? He doesn't sleep with anyone, he doesn't do the girlfriend thing, and he's not gay. He must be celibate and lonely, I guess. Even though I'm still a virgin, I know one thing for sure: I really, really want to sleep with Christian Grey and I'm not quite sure how to accomplish it.

He comes out of the bathroom with only a towel around his waist and his hair is dripping wet. He has the most amazing body: he must work out every day.

"After you shower, we'll have breakfast. Okay?"

I nod, realizing I now have to walk from the bed to the bathroom in my tee shirt and panties. There's just no way around it. But then, having undressed me, as I lay unconscious, he's already seen the goods. "Um, where are the clothes you got for me?"

He hands me a shopping bag. "Everything should fit."

I take it and just power through the embarrassment, throwing the covers off and zipping over to the bathroom.

Mmm, it's all steamy and fragrant from his shower and as I stand letting the warm water cascade down around me, I fantasize that he's in here with me. Right in the middle of my erotic daydream, the door opens and he sticks his head in, "Breakfast is here. Pick up the pace, Ms. Steele."

Damn! He shattered my delicious reverie. I quickly get out of the shower, pat myself dry, and dress. Wow, everything does fit and Taylor even got me lingerie. Hmm, thinking about the buzz-cut military type guy buying a bra and panties is comical but I hope I never see him again.

The bedroom is empty so I sidle into the living room to find him reading a paper and sitting before a huge spread of food.

"Wow, what's the deal with the buffet?"

"I didn't know what you like so I ordered a selection."

"How profligate of you."

He frowns. "Yes, it is."

"So. The books. Why did you send them to me?"

He observes me impassively. "The morning we had coffee together . . . when I pulled you out of the path of the idiot on the bike, I thought you wanted me to kiss you and I've been possibly misleading you. I wanted to apologize and I thought you'd appreciate the books." He shrugs his shoulders.

"Ana, I'm not the man for you. I have very singular tastes and I don't think you'd be of like mind." He looks at me and if I didn't know better, I'd swear there's regret or something like it reflecting back at me in his eyes. "There's something about you, though, and I'm finding it impossible to stay away. But I'm sure you've figured that out already."

He can't stay away? Kate was right! I look into his eyes without flinching and murmur, "Then don't."

Startled, he says, "You don't know what you're saying."

"Enlighten me then."

"I can't, not right now."

"Why?"

"Because I'm enjoying your company at breakfast and if I tell you, you'll go running from the room. Anyway, I really can't tell you; I have to show you."

I have nothing to say in response but I put down my fork, having lost my appetite.

"What's your schedule like this week?"

"I'm working tonight and tomorrow and then packing up the apartment for the rest of the week. We're moving to Seattle next weekend," I admit with a small smile. "Kate's father purchased her a condo."

"Where?"

"In the Pike Farmer's district?"

"Not far from me. What time do you get off work tonight?"

"Eight."

"Well, if you'd like, I can take you to my place and show you, tonight or next Friday."

"I choose tonight."

"So eager, Ms. Steele," he says, eyeing me. "I'll pick you up from Clayton's at eight o'clock. Meantime, eat your breakfast."

"I'm really not hungry."

"Eat. I have issues with wasted food and in any case, you don't eat enough. If you had bothered to eat before you went drinking last night—it's drinking rule number one—you wouldn't have gotten so ill, and I wouldn't be declaring my hand so soon."

His hand? Damn, he's cryptic. I'm dying to know what he's going to show me but I have to wait for tonight. Okay, I can do that. I force myself to take a few more bites.

"Finished?" he asks.

"Yes, I really can't eat another bite."

"Come, I'll drive you home. I suspect I'll be picking up Elliot at the same time."

As we leave, I think, Freaking Kate. She always wins the game and Grey hasn't even kissed me. Wonder if I'll be a virgin forever?

As we exit the room, I turn to him. "Will you tell me why you wouldn't kiss me that morning? Is it because of your singular tastes?"

"No."

"Are you celibate?"

He laughs so robustly I have to smile too. "No, Ana, I'm not celibate."

"Then why not, if you can't stay away from me?" Boy, am I getting bold.

"I won't put a finger on you until I have your written permission to do so."

What? Written permission? Okay, I know I'm not experienced in relationships but I'm pretty sure that most people don't draw up contracts to kiss one another. Christian Grey is one bizarre character: one bizarre, gorgeous, delectable, rich, and powerful character.


	4. Part 4

10

10

Hi everyone! Just a note to remind: I'm not rewriting the books. I think Christian Grey is perfect as is (in fact, I'm sorta jealous that you all love him, too. He's mine! LOL).

Anonymous reviewers: if you have constructive criticism, I'm all ears. If you merely want to be a hater, please move on to the next story. There are lots more you might like better and I sincerely hope you find them.

I personally found Anastasia annoying and unbelievable at times, so for fun, I'm changing only those scenes wherein she irritated me. (I perfectly understand the author's intent while creating her, so I don't mean to criticize anyone's writing. It's just individual taste.) If I don't exactly replicate Christian's dialogue verbatim, please forgive me. I don't want to be typing for days. It is only Ana I'm gunning for. (I teach writing and literature at the college level, thus, I'm continually surrounded by college students. Even the ones who aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer are generally way savvier than Ana. Did she grow up under a rock?)

Hope my friends like the next chapter. Please know that I appreciate each and every one of you. Though I was annoyed with Ana when she ripped into Christian after she ASKED him to show her how bad it could get and he did, James wrote those scenes so powerfully I wouldn't change a syllable. For me, when Ana was getting ready to leave Christian, well, it was the most compelling writing in all three books. I felt Ana's pain viscerally; been there, done that, and I know exactly what she meant when she said she had to focus on each mundane task at hand to avoid confronting the enormity of what was going on. Powerful stuff.

Anyway, here it comes:

I flee to the bathroom before anyone can notice me. He wants to take me to Jose's show. Should I do it? He's right: I haven't had time to buy a car and I'm too young to lease one at most rental agencies. If I really want to attend, I should accept.

Stop it, Ana, I scold myself. I'm merely trying to justify taking him up on his offer. Do I want to see him?

Who am I kidding? Of course I do. I miss him so much.

I wonder if he's found a new sub. Not that I ever really was one. Does he replace them that rapidly? It occurs to me that despite the considerable time I've spent with him, I know very little about the man. Yet, it's true what I told him, the words that made him so distressed. I'm in love with Christian Grey and the last three days of my life have been hell on earth. I need to see him, for my own mental health.

I march back to my desk with resolve and prepare to fire off a response to his email. But once I get there I realize with a sinking heart that I'm just prolonging the grief and misery. Seeing him again won't help me get past the pain; it will only exacerbate it. I have to decline his offer, for my own good. I send him a different email than the one I'd first planned.

TO: CHRISTIAN GREY

CEO

GREY ENTERPRISES HOLDINGS

_Christian,_

_Yes, I received the flowers—they're beautiful, thank you. I'm pleased you like the small gift I left for you—is it really displayed on your desk? I wonder._

_Your offer for a ride to Jose's show is generous; however, I think it best for both of us if I decline. Honestly, I miss you very much but seeing you again is not in my best interests, nor, I think, in yours._

_I wish you well._

_Ana_

ANASTASIA STEELE

ASSISTANT TO JACK HYDE

SEATTLE INDEPENDENT PUBLISHING

I immediately divert my calls from the Blackberry back to my cell phone so he doesn't get any more of my calls and messages. How stupid of me to forget . . . but, then again, considering what I've been through for the last 72 hours, the fact that I've managed to function at any level is impressive.

Today I even managed to swallow a banana and a cup of Greek yogurt after not consuming anything but tea, soda, and a few spoonfuls of soup for the last three days. I know I've lost weight and look just awful but I don't really care. Shit, here comes Jack; I quickly make myself look busy.

That evening I call around and find a Thrifty car rental agency that will rent to drivers under 25. I make a reservation for a small sedan and then call Jose to let him know I'll be in attendance.

"Ana! It's so good to hear your voice. How've you been, girl?"

"Good, Jose," I lie. "I started my new job on Monday and things have been hectic . . . but I'm looking forward to your show. What time does it begin?"

"Seven-thirty. I'm so glad you're able to come, Ana. I've missed seeing you."

"Me, too, Jose. See you on Thursday, then."

"Okay, see you then, Ana."

It's nearly five on Thursday and I need to leave soon to make the long drive to Portland. I picked up my rental auto early this morning so I could head straight to the gallery after work. I know I'll be exhausted tomorrow but at least it will be Friday and I'll have the weekend to sleep in. Sleep provides the only measure of solace for me these days.

"Jack," I knock lightly on his office door, "remember, I mentioned I'd be leaving a little early today? My friend is having a gallery opening in Portland tonight."

"Oh, sure, Ana, go ahead. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, by the way, I'd like to buy you a drink after work tomorrow to celebrate a successful first week. Okay?"

Ugh, I think, that's, like, the last thing I want to do but I plaster on the brightest face I can muster these days and reply, "Sure, Jack. That will be nice," and quickly take my leave.

I make a quick pit stop in the ladies room. I've made an effort to look normal today. My outfit—all borrowed from Kate's closet except the shoes—consists of a short, tailored black skirt, with black stockings and boots, and a light blue linen shirt, with three-quarter sleeves that accentuates my waistline . . . and my waistline is getting tinier by the minute lately.

It's my face that I can't do much with, though. From the rapid weight loss, my cheeks have developed pronounced hollows and my eyes are still swollen from endless crying. I look pale and gaunt. Well, I think defiantly, make-up can cover a multitude of sins, so I apply some lip gloss, rouge, and end with some black eyeliner in a feeble attempt to divert attention away from the swelling. I step back to look at the results.

Not bad. It would be better if I could wear dark sunglasses but that would be conspicuous indoors and at night, right? Oh, well, this is the best I can do. I walk out into the evening to get my car.

Rush-hour traffic out of Seattle is heavy, so the drive takes longer than planned. The GPS gets me to the gallery without getting lost as I usually do, so that makes up for the delay a bit—I always factor it in, being directionally challenged as I am. When I park the car around the corner from the gallery, it's just about 7:35. I make my way to the building.

As soon as I go inside, strange things happen. People are looking at me oddly and the woman who greeted me at the door knew my name, despite the fact that I've never set eyes on her. Weird. I spot Jose at the same time he sees me. We meet up somewhere in the middle.

"Ana! You came. I'm so glad to see you. How's life in Seattle?"

"Good, Jose, but tonight's about you, not me. Wow, you have quite a crowd here. Good for you."

"Yeah, can you believe it? Listen, I should warn you—"

"Jose!" the redheaded woman who greets at the door is calling him. "There's a reporter from the Portland Express who wants to take your photo. Can you come with?"

"Sure," Jose smiles at me. "I'll be right back, Ana."

"Of course, Jose. I'll stroll around."

His photographs are exceptional: landscapes in black and white and color. He even has a few sepia-toned ones, and they are the most haunting, in my opinion.

I'm standing in front of a coastal shot when I feel someone right beside me. I glance over and see a young blond guy staring at me. "You're the muse? Hi," he says, extending his hand, "I'm Geoffrey. I was admiring your portraits before."

"My portraits?"

"Over there," he points to a small alcove off the main gallery room. I look at him again and then step over to where he gestured and my mouth drops open. There are seven huge photographs of me, two in color and five in black and white, adorning the entire wall. Every facial expression possible seems to be represented on the wall: happy, sad, angry, pensive, mischievous . . . Now I know why everyone is looking at me.

Several things happen all at once. The blond puts his hand on my shoulder, someone pulls me out of his reach from behind, and the redhead approaches me from the front, smiling.

What?

The blond guy looks embarrassed and I turn around to see who grasped me: standing there looking gloriously handsome is Christian Grey, hot anger raging in his eyes. The redheaded woman's smile freezes on her face. She keeps walking toward the front of the gallery.

Blondie beats a hasty retreat as well: nobody does jealous anger like Christian.

"What are you doing here, Christian?"

"When was the last time you ate anything?" he counters.

"It's nice to see you, too. I asked a question first."

"I came here to see you, of course . . . and, subsequently, to buy some photos. Seven to be precise."

"You bought all seven portraits of me?"

"Of course. I didn't want someone leering at them in the comfort of his living room."

"No, it should be you, right?" I smile.

"Naturally," he says. "I'd like to take you to dinner. You need to eat and we need to talk. Have you finished here?"

"No, Christian, I haven't, and I told you in my email message I don't think it's healthy for us to see each other at this point."

"So you said but I beg to differ. I have a proposition for you to consider, Ana. Please come to dinner with me."

"This whole thing started with a proposition, as I recall. An indecent one."

He smiles. "Come. Let's say our goodbyes to Mr. Rodriguez and go to dinner. There's a small café that will suit."

I roll my eyes—intentionally. He is so obstinate and just tramples over my preferences. On the other hand, I've seen most of Jose's photos and I need to drive all the way back to Seattle. I should get going.

"Okay. I have to make it quick, though. I have a long drive back and work tomorrow."

"Taylor can drop your rental off here in Portland and drive us back together."

"Fine, whatever. I'm going to say goodbye to Jose."

I walk over to the other side of the gallery to bid Jose farewell. He's standing in the middle of a knot of admiring women. Woo-hoo, Jose's a chick magnet tonight. I feel bad stepping on his limelight as I interrupt, "Jose?"

"Ana! You're leaving?"

"'fraid so. I have a long drive back. Everything looks great, though, and I'm so glad I came. You're so talented."

He steps away from the women to give me a hug. "I miss you, Ana. Don't be a stranger." He picks me up and spins me around and I catch Christian's smoldering look. The devil on my shoulder tempts me and I circle my arms around Jose's neck. "I'll see you really soon, Jose, I promise," is all I get out before I feel Christian grab my elbow.

"Very nice show, Mr. Rodriguez. You're very talented."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey."

"Ana and I regrettably have to leave now. We have a long drive back."

"Right. Well, thanks for coming."

Christian nods his head and leads me to the door. He is massively pissed, I know, but I don't care. When we get through the doors he looks around and then pulls me toward a quiet alleyway, pushing me against the brick wall and begins to kiss me.

I kiss him back and put all the emotion I've had building for the last five days. Oh, have I missed him. He's kissing me the same way and it hits me with sudden force that he's feeling the same way. Maybe he loves me, too?

"Damn it, Ana," he says, "that was immature and stupid."

"What"" I ask, panting.

"You know what. Making me jealous. What was the point? Don't you already know how I feel about you?"

I look at him searchingly. What? He looks fine to me—doesn't look like he's been suffering too much. How does he feel about me exactly?"

"For the second time in our short-lived relationship I'll say the same words. Enlighten me."

"Come, let's go have dinner and we'll talk."

He gets us a private table all the way in the back of the small café.

"Okay, here we are. Your proposition?"

A waiter magically appears at the table. Christian orders for both of us, annoying me again. What is it with him?

"I might have wanted to order my own dinner, Christian. Ever think of that?"

"Ana, don't be trivial. We don't have much time and I want to say something to you. The last few days have been the darkest of my adult life, Ana. When you left, it felt like the sun went down and it hasn't come up since. I'd like you to reconsider coming back to me, Anastasia."

"But nothing's changed, Christian. We're incompatible: you want a submissive and I want a boyfriend, not a dom. How can we reconcile that difference?"

"I'm willing to consider a traditional relationship. Listen, let's have dinner and continue this conversation in the car where we'll have more privacy."

"Are you sure the rental agency will allow me to drop off at another location?"

"Yes, I had Taylor check before I spoke with you."

"So I guess there's no need for me to ask how you knew I rented a car and with what agency. You should put your stalking skills to profit; perhaps begin a detective agency?"

He's trying to suppress a smile but I see it breaking through. Wow, ten points for me.

"Okay, Christian. Let's have a nice dinner together now and then we'll discuss your proposition on the way home, like a proper M&A is conducted. We'll liaise in exactly one hour in the SUV to discuss mutual opportunities for future mutual profit, and hopefully arrive at a suitable compromise to which all parties can agree. How's that?"

Now he caves and gives in to the smile. Wow, he can light up a dark cave with the wattage he's throwing out. "I think, Ms. Steele, that you may find that doing business with me is not only mutually beneficial, but quite lucrative in the long-term."

He holds up his wine glass, "To our successful M&A."


	5. Part 5

7

7

Taylor is waiting for us with the SUV outside the restaurant. As soon as he spots us emerge from the café, he opens the back door for us to slide in. Once we're on the road, Christian turns to me.

"How have you been really?"

Isn't it obvious?

"Rock bottom, Christian. These past few days have easily been the worst of my life." I quietly whisper, "I think it's fairly apparent."

"Mine, too, Ana."

"You look pretty damn good to me."

"Appearances can be very deceiving: the last few days have been the blackest of my adult life; I can't continue on in this vein."

I'm stunned by his admission. He does care about me—maybe even loves me. Why else would he want me back?

"So, Anastasia, my proposition."

My eyes dart to Taylor in the front seat. "Christian, maybe we should postpone our discussion for tomorrow night after work so we . . . oh, wait. I have to go out for drinks with Jack tomorrow."

I see his immediate jealous reaction; honestly, it's like pushing a button with him. "Uh, he wants to celebrate my successful first week . . ." I trail off lamely.

"Does he now? Where will you be going?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I can call you from the bar and you can meet me there. Will that suit?" I'm starting to even sound like him.

"I have a better idea. How about I have Taylor put in his earphones and listen to music so we can talk privately here and now. Will that resolve the issue?"

"For someone who always considers safety of paramount importance, I'd think not. First of all, it's dangerous and isn't it also illegal for a driver to wear headphones? Can't hear honking horns or emergency sirens?"

"We're on the highway. Who would be honking?  
"Runaway trucks?"

"Good point, Ms. Steele. However, Taylor can put the music on softly so he can still hear ambient noise without hearing the particulars of our conversation. Taylor," he says loudly, "would you mind using the earphones?"

"Not at all, sir." I see him place them in his ears.

"Okay, now we don't have to wait until tomorrow. Here's my proposition, Ana: I want you back and I'm willing to consider a traditional relationship if that's all you want."

In the dwindling light, I can see his eyes and they're clouded with anxiety.

"Is it all you want?" He persists, prodding me to answer.

"Is it enough to say yes and discuss all the particulars tomorrow? Say, at my place?" I arch my brows and try to sound seductive, to make him laugh.

"No. For peace of mind I want this matter settled tonight."

I stop myself from rolling my eyes just in time.

"Traditional as in what you call vanilla?"

He nods.

"With no kinky . . .?"

"Correct. None."

I feel my cheeks heat up. I hate having to talk about these things—I don't mind doing them but I hate talking about them. But I suppose I must.

I power through my embarrassment. "I like the, you know, kinky stuff. The fundamental problem I have is the idea that you want to hurt me."

His hand drags through his hair and he closes his eyes for a moment. "I don't want to hurt you, Ana. Not really. It's not a question of wanting to hurt . . ." he sighs, exasperated. "It's hard for me to . . . I never had to explain myself before . . . and I find it challenging to say the least.

"It's punishment, not violence, and it's just something I need, part of my control issues. After what I've endured the past five days, however, I find I may need it considerably less than I need you, Ana. I'm willing to take it off the table entirely."

"Punishment? Entirely?" I ask, my voice getting squeaky.

He nods. I can no longer see his face clearly in the descending dark, so I can't tell for sure what he's thinking. It would help to see his expressions but then he is the master of the poker face.

"I'm not asking you to do that, Christian. I don't even mind the . . . you know, the . . . spanking." I whisper the last word.

"What exactly do you mind?"

"Christian, I didn't leave you because you whipped me. Not directly, anyway—I asked you to do it, to show me. I left because you said you couldn't consider a relationship without that part being a condition. At the time, I thought I couldn't tolerate it—neither the pain or the impetus behind it."

I close my eyes, remembering the burning, acidic grief of the last week. "But after suffering the agony of losing you, the belt pales in comparison. I'm more willing to consider the heavy stuff down the road but it can't be a disqualifier. If I find I can't do it, I don't want to be banished from your life."

"Ana, you will never be banished—"

I interrupt him. "Christian, for someone who is so intelligent, you don't seem to see the forest for the trees. I've never even set eyes on your ex-sub Leila, yet I can easily tell you that the girl was in love with you . . . and trying desperately to get your attention—just by the songs she put on your iPod.

"Yet, you allowed her to walk away and you merely replaced her, as you would an automobile. Am I correct? You said she left for another man so I'm assuming she wasn't getting what she needed from you.

"I can't begin to understand the underlying motives at play here, but it's painfully clear that you've kept yourself from being exposed to any intimacy whatsoever. You happened upon a way—thanks to the pedophile—of having all the sex you want without forming any emotional attachment. At least that's what you've been able to convince yourself of."

"Your point, Ana?"

"My point is that before I expose myself to any more emotional grief, I want to understand what you get from punishing women?" I try to see his face, squinting in the dark car.

"I've told you already that I don't even know myself. I suppose at the end of the day, it's more a sexual thing than anything else. It turns me on. Big time.

"But tangled into that knot is the fact that I can more easily control my life if I control those in it with me. Dr. Flynn can probably explain it better than I.

"I'm not a misogynist, if that's where you're going, Ana."

I'm quiet for a few moments, the cogs turning madly in my brain. Will he truly be able to do it, or am I setting myself up for more emotional torment?

"Ana, I want to understand you completely: are you saying you might consider, say, the belt or the cane, down the road? Or am I misinterpreting?"

"I really can't say for sure, Christian. I think—and think is the operative word here—that if it's a sexual thing, I'd be more inclined to try to handle it. If it's a control issue, no, definitely not going there. I'm used to having my autonomy and I don't want to be controlled by anyone . . . even someone as important to me as you are."

"Look, Ana, we're getting ahead of ourselves anyway. My proposition is to offer you a traditional relationship right now and if, as we go along, we find we want to add to it, then that's fine. Right now, I just want you to come back."

That's all I need to hear; I can't stay away from him a second longer. I unbuckle my seatbelt and launch myself into his lap. "Yes, Christian. My answer is yes. You're willing to give up all of that for me so I'll try to do what I can to compromise. I accept your proposition."

He embraces me tightly, kissing my hair over and over. "You told me you loved me before you left, Ana. Is that still the case?"

"What do you think?" I ask him, encircling my arms around his neck and nuzzling him. "Can you figure it out all by yourself?"

I can feel rather than see him smile. "Shall I take that as a yes, then?"

"Yes, yes, yes, Christian Grey. I am still in love with you. It's not as easy as throwing a switch, you know."

I spend the rest of the ride in his arms—wow, we're breaking all the rules tonight. Usually he makes me wear the seatbelt at all times. I am so content—warm and comfortable—being right where I've wanted to be for the last five days that I soon doze off. When I open my eyes, the SUV has pulled up in front of my apartment.

"Are you coming in?" I ask shyly.

He shakes his head. "No. I'll see you tomorrow. But I have something for you. Taylor," he taps his shoulder and Taylor pulls out the earphones, " I'll be right back. Just give me a minute."

He exits the vehicle with me and strides around to the back, opening the rear door and pulling out a large box. "Please take this without a fight, Ana. I'll call or email you about tomorrow night, okay?"

Wow, it's a big box. And heavy, too. "Okay, Christian. Sure you don't want to come in?"

"Don't tempt me, Ana. I've had too many days without you already. On the plus side, I've been dedicating myself to kickboxing because of it and I managed to knock Claude on his ass three times in one week—a new personal best for me." His smile is heart-melting.

I reach up and kiss him softly on his lips, disappointed to be going home alone. After all, I've also been deprived of his magnificent body for five days now—with no exercise, other than sobbing uncontrollably. Does that count as exercise?

"Till tomorrow then."

I head into the front door of my apartment building.


	6. Part 6

6

6

I know any moment Christian is going to come through the door, looking for me, and Leila may shoot him before he even has the chance to assess the situation. Perhaps that was her plan all along: to kill Christian and then herself? She'd just said something to me, to the effect that she acquired a gun so she could join her love. I'm petrified that that's her plan and I rack my brain for a way to warn him before he crosses the threshold into her crosshairs.

Almost as soon as the thought slithers insidiously into my mind, the door flings open and in bursts Christian, with Taylor at his back. I've never seen Christian like this before: his face is a purple mask of rage crossed with unadulterated terror. He stops short when he sees Leila with the gun, standing right across from me, and he glares at her with unbridled fury.

I look at Leila: at first she doesn't seem fazed at all by Christian and his big anger; she's still cradling the gun and rocking back and forth. Once she looks straight at him, though, she begins to instantly react, casting her eyes down, her face filling with contrition. He continues to glare at her, holding up his hand in an apparent effort to warn off Taylor from taking any action. Perhaps he's seen some way to control the situation.

Right before my very eyes, Christian's entire demeanor changes. It's subtle but definitely there: his carriage grows more erect so he looks taller and his bearing cold and unyielding. Even his stance changes: his feet plant farther apart and the planes of his face appear more angular with the arrogant expression he's adopted. In the pit of my stomach a growing realization takes root. I know this man. I've seen him . . . _in the playroom_.

This is Dominant Christian.

Shit, but we're in for a show, like it or not, and I feel as if I'm going to faint. At the same time, I'm riveted by the scene playing out before me. It's dark theatre if ever I've witnessed it. I wonder what Taylor makes of it—he must know of Christian's proclivities; Taylor is nearly omniscient.

While Taylor and I bear witness, the two of them continue to share some kind of secret communion: Christian with his dominant anger thing going and Leila with her submissive, remorseful slinking. I honestly don't know how much more of this I can stomach: there's such an intimacy between them that I feel as if I'm the interloper—and in my own apartment, no less. The moment the idea of sneaking out of the apartment occurs to me, I see Christian mouth a word and Leila reacts immediately. She drops to her knees and the gun falls out of her hand, skimming across the floor until a wall arrests its progress.

On the hardwood floor, Leila is on her knees looking down, in the submissive position Christian showed me. The air in the room is still, and heavy with tension. Christian walks casually over to the gun, picks it up, empties it of bullets, and then drops it into his pocket. He then steps back over to where Leila kneels, hovering protectively, and without taking his eyes off her says, "Anastasia, go back to the apartment with Taylor."

"Ethan," my voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Downstairs," he says, "go, now."

I don't need any more encouragement: I'm out the door and flying down the stairs. I hear Taylor behind me, trying to catch up. As soon as I emerge from the front door, I see Ethan standing, waiting, a look of utter confusion on his face. I run to him and nearly jump into his arms.  
"Ethan! Thank God, you're safe. I was so worried . . ."

"Ana, what's going on? I was about to let myself into the apartment when I was jumped by two guys in suits. What the hell?"

"I'll explain everything. Can we go somewhere to get drunk or something?"

"Sure, come on."

"Er, Ms. Steele?" Taylor interjects politely. "Mr. Grey asked that you go back to the apartment."

I focus my full attention on Taylor. "Was my apartment checked at all for signs of a break-in?"

Taylor's face turns tomato red. "Yes, Ms. Steele . . . Ana. I checked it myself earlier today. It was secure. She certainly found ways to get around us. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine, Taylor. I just wondered. I'm not going back to Escala. You can tell Mr. Grey I instead went out with my friend. Anyway, we all know where Leila is now, so what's the difference? She's a danger no more."

I turn back to Ethan. "Come on. I need to get out of here."

I loop my arm through his and we set off. We get down the block before I realize I left my things in the SUV. "Oh, shit. Ethan, I left my bag with my wallet and phone in the car back there. I need to get it."

"Drinks are on me. I'll take you back home too. Come on, Ana, let's get away from that place. I don't know exactly what went down but I felt creeped out by they way Grey and his man were acting"

I realize now that we are standing right in front of a bar having this conversation. "How about here? That way I can keep an eye on the building so I have some idea of what's going on."  
Ethan shrugs. "Okay by me."

We find two seats right by a window. Both of us begin with beer but it isn't long before we switch to harder stuff: scotch for Ethan and brandy for me. I haven't eaten anything all day so by the second drink, I'm feeling no pain. That's when I see Dr. Flynn pull up to the apartment and go through the front door—Taylor is holding it open—with a woman dressed in blue scrubs.

About fifteen or twenty minutes later—or drink number three in my world—the two emerge with Christian, who is holding Leila wrapped in a blanket. Ethan looks at me, startled, and I shrug. I guess it's time to explain. Before now, we've been talking about Kate and Elliott, and Ethan's application to grad school.

"Ethan, I can't really explain the whole thing to you but—"

He interrupts, "Ana, you can tell me anything. I'm your friend."

"No, I really can't—"

"You can. Go ahead, unload."

"I can't, Ethan, because I've signed a nondisclosure agreement." I say, somewhat angrily. He's stubborn like Kate.

"A what? You're kidding me?"

"Look, Ethan, you have to understand. Christian is an important man; he's very wealthy and very powerful. Accordingly, he has lots of enemies who would like nothing more than to take him down. He has to be careful."

"But having your girlfriend sign a legal document?"

"I wasn't his girlfriend when I signed. Look, I'll tell you what I can. An ex-girlfriend of his had a psychotic break. Apparently her boyfriend was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago and she had a breakdown. Ever since, she's been sort of stalking Christian . . . and me, too. She broke into his apartment and today she broke into mine.

"When we arrived here tonight, Christian was on a business call so I told him to wait and I'd go up and get you. I was buzzed in, presumably by you. When I got upstairs, there was his ex with a gun—"

"A gun?"

I nod. "Yes. I think she meant to do herself harm, not anyone else. Anyway, when Christian and Taylor saw you arrive, they realized it wasn't you who buzzed me in and since Kate's still away . . . well, they knew who was in there and they both ran. Christian was afraid that Leila was out to harm me."

"Why didn't he call the police?"

"Christian prefers to handle things himself when possible. Also, he didn't want her to end up in jail; he cares about her. He's bringing her to a hospital to get her help. Anyway, that's the story in a nutshell. Another drink?"

Ethan laughs. "For such a tiny thing, you sure can put it away, Ana."

By ten o'clock we've had enough. Ethan is kind enough to walk me back to Escala. The walk is good for me: it clears the fog of intoxication a bit. I know when I get upstairs, I'm going to have to deal with the wrath of Grey. He doesn't like it when I don't follow his orders. Too fucking bad.

I say goodnight to Ethan who now has to stay with a friend since Taylor has my keys. He waits until I step into the elevator and wave to him. I'm feeling very fond of Ethan right about now. I input the code to Christian's penthouse and steel myself for the confrontation yet to come.

When I walk into the great room, Christian is on the phone, pacing. "I don't care, just find her and soon. Go to every fucking bar in Seattle for all I care and—"

He stops short when he sees me and tersely says into the phone, "Nevermind, she's here." He disconnects, tossing the phone on the sofa and directs his anger at me now.

"Where the fuck have you been? It's after ten and I told you to come back to the apartment. You left your bag and phone in the SUV so I couldn't track you. I've been worried, damn it, Ana."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You were worried about me? When was that, Christian? Before, during, or after you were seeing to your ex?" I'm angry too and it's spilling into my words. "I went for a drink with Ethan. We were right across the street from my apartment. You know the one—where you were playing out your little scene with Leila? The one you asked me to leave? You remember, right?"

**Author's note**: Okay, I won't touch what follows: it's such a great scene all the way with Christian going 50 Shades. The only thing I was thinking when Christian drops to his knees in sub mode was, "Ana, at least get him to clean your apartment for you!"

I'm kidding, of course, but wouldn't that have been funny?


	7. Part 7

3

3

I open my eyes and when they adjust to the dark of early morning, I see him sitting in a chair opposite the bed, just staring at me sleep. He's still in a tux, the bow tie opened and hanging loose around his neck. In his hand is a cut-glass tumbler, probably filled with scotch or whiskey.

Should I speak to him . . . or just roll over and go back to sleep? He's scaring me right now and I'm still groggy from liquor and bad dreams.

"You're back early. Do you know what happened with Hyde?"

He nods, saying nothing. Nothing at all. Shit, this is bad. "Is that why you came back early?"

He doesn't answer me; he just keeps staring at me, his eyes filled with ice. Right now, I think he hates me.

"Christian, talk to me. Why did you return home early? Was it because I went out with Kate?"

He takes a sip of his drink. "Yes. You promised me, Ana. You promised you would go straight home and instead you went out to a bar with your friend. I came home because I can't trust you, apparently."

"I'm sorry, Christian. This time you're right. I did promise you and I broke that promise. It's just that Kate really wanted to go to this new place and I didn't want to disappoint her. I should have honored my promise to you, however." I crawl up the bed toward him and climb into his lap, nuzzling him.

He doesn't respond at all. I look up at him. "Christian, stop being so cold. You're scaring me."

"Cold? Cold is not what I'm feeling, Ana. There's fire in my belly. I'm so angry I don't know what to do with it . . . but I do know that I want to beat the shit out of you. Very badly. Maybe I will."

"I hope not, Christian. Remember how you felt when you saw the welts around my ankles? Can you imagine how much worse you'll feel if you really hurt me?"

"This is different, Ana. Very different."

"Okay, I'll admit I was wrong but if I had listened to you and come straight home, I'd have been here when Jack Hyde broke in. Isn't it better that I was out?"

"Did it ever cross your reckless little mind that by keeping half of our security team out while you and your friend tanked up, you were exposing the other two to danger?"

Shit. No, it really hadn't.

"Christian, I'm not used to having security so, no, it didn't cross my mind. I just gave in to Kate's wishes . . . as I tend to do with all of the forceful personalities I am surrounded by these days."

He's still staring at me, his eyes hard as stone, and now I'm getting angry. "What do you want me to do, Christian? I promise I'll work harder to be more considerate. Is that enough for you or do we go into the playroom to settle it?"

"He had duct tape and rope with him, Ana. He was planning to abduct you. Do you understand the implications of that? Do you now understand that my concerns are justified? What will it take for you to take things seriously? Do you need to be kidnapped and beaten for it to penetrate your thick skull?"

I wince at the thought of being Jack's hostage. Terrifying. "Okay, point taken. I'm truly sorry for breaking my promise and for exposing our security team to danger. It won't happen again, Christian."

I'm still in his lap and now I begin to kiss his face and neck and hair. At first he doesn't respond but then his arms wrap around me and he embraces me, clutching me tightly. Whew, crisis averted, I think.

But his next words prove me wrong.

He places me back on the bed and stands up. "I want you in the playroom in ten minutes," he says, and then turns on his heel and walks out of the room.


	8. Part 8

6

6

**Author's note**: Sorry to interrupt the flow but just to let you know I am deviating from the story with the last two parts only because it's how I wanted the story to go so . . . hope you like it.

Shit! He wants to go into the playroom now, while he's burning with rage? What should I do? If I go in with him and he hurts me, it could destroy our brand-new, shiny marriage. On the other hand, if I refuse, what then? Will he get past it or nurse a grudge forever? I don't know him well enough yet to predict with any accuracy; I'm just not sure.

Why did I let Kate convince me to go out for drinks? It was stupid and inconsiderate of me. The thing is, though, Christian should be happy that I wasn't here when Hyde broke in, shouldn't he? What's the problem?

The problem, my more rational self tells me, is that I am making him second-guess himself and he doesn't appreciate the self-doubt. He's probably worried that he made a bad call when he insisted I come back to Escala when he wasn't here and it's tormenting him. He's erected his whole wildly successful life around his decisiveness and unerring judgment . . . and then here I come, sashaying into his life, and upend everything.

Okay, worse-case scenario: he whips me, hurts me. Then what? Do I leave him or get over it? If I allow it to happen, isn't that an implicit agreement to allow future punishment? I told him I would consider the hard stuff later on in, and only in a sexual context, not as behavior control. I can't give an inch on this one; it's too critical to our relationship.

Also, I am freaking scared: that first time he hit me with the belt hurt—a lot. The man is strong . . . and angry: a lethal combination. I am not interested in becoming a victim of domestic abuse. If he really needs to do this type of thing, the punishment thing, then I'm probably not the right woman for him. This is the doubt that's been eating at me ever since I saw him with Leila . . . but I am not Leila, or any of them, for that matter. Even the doctor. That one threw me for a loop, I have to admit: I keep imagining a woman like Dr. Greene, with her professional demeanor, bent over Christian's whipping table, stethoscope hanging from her neck. Ugh, I shake my head to dispel the unwanted image.

I'll go into the playroom, I decide, but words need to be said. I'm not going into sub mode, not while he's irrationally angry. I take off my tee shirt and throw a robe around myself, heading upstairs with shaky legs but a determined resolve.

Tentatively opening the door, I see he's not here yet. Good. Sometimes the playroom feels like a sexy friend but other times, like now, it's the devil incarnate, waiting to do evil to me. Guess that's what makes it so exciting—Christian does know how to fiddle psychologically with pretty little girls, doesn't he? Should I kneel or hold onto my status as a full human being with rights by standing?

I'll kneel and play nice, lull him into a false sense of security until he pulls out an implement. I thought he'd gotten rid of all of it but as it turns out, he had a few of his favorites tucked away. It was that day we had lunch at his parents' house and I was feeling out of sorts, just couldn't feel right. After the car chase—and car sex, woohoo—I was still on edge. That was the night I learned he still had his favorite cat . . .

"Apparently, we can add him to your growing list of admirers, Ana."

I roll my eyes. "Christian, you think everyone is on that list, for God's sake."

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

I look him squarely in the face. "I sure did."

He cocks his head. "What are we going to do about it?"

"Something rough," I answer just as the doors slide open. Sawyer is waiting for us in the hall. Christian grasps my hand and says tersely to the man, "Debrief in one hour, my office."

"Yes, sir," Sawyer responds and spins on his heel, heading back into Taylor's office. Christian leads me upstairs as my legs transform into Jell-o and everything south of my navel heats and liquefies.

With no words spoken, we step into the playroom. Closing the door, Christian turns and immediately begins to undress me, still without speaking. I don't have many clothes on so soon I'm bare.

"Something rough, you say? How rough?"

I shrug my shoulders in an exaggerated fashion, my eyes filled with anticipation.

"Carte blanche?"

"Yes."

He goes into the chest—the butt drawer!—and removes the plug he showed me that time he caught me investigating up here. He holds it up for me to see, his eyes questioning. He's asking my permission.

I lick my lips nervously. "Is that all you've got?"

His head tilts back as if I slapped him—he's surprised. I love to shock this man who is generally unshockable. "What did you have in mind?"

Again, I shrug. "I can't seem to shake this mood I'm in. Wanna try beating it out of me?" I whisper the last part.

His mouth drops open slightly but he quickly recovers. "Why?"

I don't know why, truly I don't. Never in a million years would I have expected to ever feel this way, wanting him to hit me. When we first met, when I asked him to explain it to me—his penchant for inflicting pain—he couldn't. Nor could I begin to grasp what motivated the subs to want to be hurt.

Yet here I stand, really wanting him to do it . . . and I have no idea why. "Must I have a reason?"

"No, baby. You don't need a reason. I'm just trying to understand you. Ana, you take my breath away sometimes. Unpredictable doesn't nearly begin to cover it."

I say nothing. He takes my arm and guides me to the table—my friend and foe—and pushes me down so I'm bent over it. I hear him behind me, opening a drawer, closing it. In this Red Room of Pain, every little noise is amplified for maximum psychological impact, and I try to picture what's going on.

The music begins. It starts out softly and builds slowly. I can't identify what it is and right now, I'm too worked up to even think about anything logically. Then he's behind me. His hand reaches around and shows me what he's holding: oh, shit, it's a cat o' nine tails. I glance at him and he's watching me intently. "Okay?"

"Yes," my voice is barely there.

"Do you like it?"

I nod.

He leans down to whisper in my ear. "Kiss it, baby. Feel it."

I touch my lips to the leather. It smells good, a citrus scent mixed with rich leather. Now, I'm scared but I'm committed already. I can't back out now.

He's still leaning over me. "Something rough, you say. You must tell me if it's too rough, Ana. Understood?"

"Yes, Christian."

"I'll do four lashes. If it gets too much, remember to use the safe word. Yes?"

I nod. Let's do this already.

He steps behind me and the wait is agonizing . . . but somehow addictive. Why is this so exciting, I wonder? On the heel of that thought, it comes. And it hurts.

"Count, Ana. It gives you back some control."

Plus, it's humiliating, I think. "One," I shout and it's then I know I can do this thing, at least this one time. After the fourth lash, he throws down the whip and picks up the butt plug.

When he slams into me, I can feel him and the plug and the music . . . the sensations build with the music, build so high until I can't stand it anymore but I can't find release. I scream his name in frustration and he responds, helping me finally climax by slapping me hard once more and I come, shuddering with the thunderous force of it. He follows soon after and as we lay there, still on his red padded bench, I finally feel better. Whatever devil was inhabiting me was handily chased out by my luscious husband and his lovely little cat.

That night was a win-win. It's not going to happen now, I think, as I slip off the robe and sink to my knees. I hear the door open and he enters the room. He's in the worn-out jeans that make me hot and bothered, and he looks right at me, an unreadable expression on his face. Usually when we're in here, he reverts to dominant mode and ignores me when he first comes into the room—all part of the psychological manipulation.

I'm kneeling in the sub position but I'm not looking down: I'm staring him in the eye. I have to tell him that I won't let him hit me but I'm unsure as to how so I wait for his cue.


	9. Part 9

He looks directly into my eyes and his are like steel. "Did you forget how to behave in this room, Anastasia?"

I quickly cast my eyes down, wondering how far I should let this go. I sense him coming closer and then he's right in front of me, waiting. "Look at me," he commands sternly.

I glance up and he's holding out his hand. "Come."

I gingerly place my hand in his extended one and rise to my feet. He leads me over to the crossbars. Good, he can't beat me from that position but should I let him tether me while he's so angry?

He takes my right wrist and lifts it to the cuff, snapping it into place. Guess I'm in. He does the same to the left and then both my ankles. What next?

I watch him closely. Christian is my husband now and I'm no longer afraid of him, not the way I used to be. Still, he manages to cow me often. His behavior is more understandable to me but somehow he's still intimidating and right now my heart is nearly jumping through my chest. He's woken me up in the wee morning hours, scared me with his coldness, and now blames me for being a target of a madman—all because he feels his ironclad control slipping from his grasp. What the hell does he want from me, for God's sake?

Producing our favorite tie from his back pocket, he uses it to blindfold me. Christian is so freaking adept at psychological torment—it's like he's inside my head making things happen. I can't move and I can't see; all I can do is listen and wait. I hear him moving around the room and then the music starts up. It's Bach, I think, and I immediately dislike it. There's something about the movement—a dissonance of some sort—that makes me squirm, like nails across a blackboard.

He returns to me; I can actually feel the heat from his body radiating toward mine. All I can hear is the music and the sound of my own ragged breathing while I wait, indefinitely, for him to decide what to inflict upon my body.

Abruptly I feel the hot sting of something snapping at me: it's the riding crop. Usually, my friend but I've a feeling it will turn foe on me today. His aim is deadly true as he uses it to bring me to the lip of orgasm. My body tenses and a moan escapes from my throat . . . and he stops cold.

And waits until it slips away from me.

Ah, that's his game this morning. Now I understand how he'll take out his anger on my body, not through beating but through deprivation. He's told me more than once that my body will always pay the price one way or the other. This is his torment du jour, then.

He comes close once more: I can feel his breath kiss my skin and then he's on me once again. This time it's his hand that's traveling up and down my body, caressing everything. He works it from my throat down to my navel and then lower, slipping it between my legs and suddenly his touch is electric—literally. He has a vibrator strapped to his hand and he's using it on me to bring me back to the edge.

The pleasure is intense but I know what's coming and it's not going to be me. As soon as I start to move into my orgasm, he'll stop completely, the bastard. How does he always know when I'm about to come?

And then the realization slams into me: I know how to best him at his own game. My body itself is telling him all he needs to know, telegraphing my impending orgasm to him. All I have to do is remain perfectly still, resist the impulse to move through my orgasm and he'll never know . . . until it's too late, till after it's over. Then he'll know. Should I do it?

No. It will only exacerbate his anger and that's not good for my health. I'll hang in as long as I can. There's always the safe word. So I stay with him and just as I'm about to climax, surprise. The vibrator goes quiet.

Even though I've decided not to trick him, I refuse to beg. I'll just suffer in silence and let him get his damn jollies. After a few moments of listening to this fucking annoying music that's bouncing around in my head, he begins again, moving up to my breasts with the vibrator. How long will he keep this up?

Long enough to change my mind about begging. "Christian, please," I finally plead. "Please!" I yell loudly at him.

"Oh, I know, baby. I know. It seems to get more intense with every time, doesn't it?" His voice is sympathetic.

I squeeze my eyes shut behind the blindfold. The SOB is commiserating with me when he's the one delivering the torture? I'm so angry and frustrated, I don't know what to do with myself. I can't take much more of the sexual frustration and his coldhearted treatment.

"Christian," I say, as the vibrator starts up again, "enough. I can't take anymore. Uncuff me, Christian. Now."

He says nothing but I feel the vibrator back on my sensitized skin. "No!" I shout at him "I've had enough of this bullshit!"

Again, he disregards me and he's doing it to me again. I have no choice but to use the safe word since he's not listening to me. What if he ignores that too? I have to try. "Red," I shout, about to really lose it now. "Red, red, red, red!"

He was expecting it then: he instantly rips the blindfold off me and begins to uncuff my ankles first, and then my arms. I fall onto him, crying now, and he catches me and brings me over to the bed. As soon as I'm off my feet, I roll away from him: I don't want him to touch me, not now, not at all.

"Leave me be, Christian. Go away. Now."

"I'm not leaving you in this room, Ana. Come. I'll put you back in bed." He's holding out his arms to me . . . but I just can't. Right now I hate his guts.

"No. I'll stay in here. Just go, get out now or I'll scream. Really."

He gets up, walks to the other side of the bed where I'm lying and scoops me up with the red satin sheet I'm clutching around myself. "I'm just bringing you back to bed and I'll leave you alone, Ana. Be quiet now. We don't want to wake the staff."

"No, of course not," I spit out at him. "Heaven forbid we wake the staff. Let's be careful that I'm the only one—wake me, torment me. Perhaps you would have preferred that I'd obeyed your strictures and ended up as Jack Hyde's hostage? I'm sure you would have somehow managed to pin the blame for that on me, too. My fault for taking the job in the first place? Put me the fuck down, Christian, now."

He's beyond furious: I see the pulse in his neck throbbing in spasms. Well, I'm spitting angry, too, now. Orgasm denial is no picnic and I feel like I could do real injury to him at this moment. He plops me down unceremoniously and I sweep up the red satin sheet with as much dignity as possible, and stomp away toward the bedroom. Now I'm glad I went out with Kate for the drinks, damn it. At least Hyde is in police custody now and can't hurt us anymore. Christian will just have to get the fuck over it.


	10. Part 11

3

3

**Author's Note: **Oops! I skated right through another few scenes of the books that bothered me so forgive me for the parts being out of order. Am I the only one who was PO'd when Ana was so mean to Kate when Kate found the email? After all, Kate had nothing but Ana's best interests at heart and she lets Ana live with her and borrow her nice clothes, etc. Some friend Ana is. And why would Kate end up apologizing to Christian? She wasn't wrong, after all, just late.

Also, why was Christian's mother angry with him when she found out about his affair with Elena? I could see her being beyond furious with Elena but why Christian? Did she expect him to tell her about it? Can you see a 15-year-old boy with a perennial hard-on saying to his mother, "Mom, you know that really rich hot blond friend of yours? Well, she's making passes at me. Make her stop, please. "

I mean, really. Elena is the one who should be held accountable, not Christian. Right? ******

We have barely crossed the threshold of the front door when Kate comes barreling over to us, her body poured into a tight red dress, her blond hair upswept. She looks hot.

"Hi, Kate!" I greet her with enthusiasm, my happiness infectious.

Her eyes are bright with anger. "I want to see both of you privately, right now!"

Baffled, I look at Christian and he just shrugs and begins to follow her, pulling me along. Carrick, who has just opened the door and greeted us, looks both amused and surprised by Kate's behavior. We go into a small drawing room and as soon as the door closes behind us, Kate whirls around, a piece of paper in her hand.

"What the hell is this?" She wags the paper in front of us and then hands it to me.

I open it and the blood drains from my face. Fuck me! It's a copy of an email I sent Christian, asking for clarification on hard and soft limits. What the hell am I going to tell Kate now?

I step closer to her, dropping my voice low in the very feeble hope that Christian won't bother getting involved. "Kate, I'll explain this note to you but not now. Today is Christian's birthday and it's a very special day for us. This, here," I hold up the paper, "is ancient history. Okay?"

Christian goes to grab for the paper, "What does it say?"

I hold up my hand to stop him. "Christian, don't worry about it. I'll take care of it, please?" I want him to let it go but I should know better. He snatches the paper from my hand and quickly scans it. His face entirely impassive, he swings his gaze directly at Kate. "Have you told anyone?" His voice is low and silky—code for Christian's lethal anger.

"No, of course not," Kate snaps at him. "I want an explanation, however." She looks at me, concern flooding her face. "Ana, has he hurt you?"

Christian, meantime, has taken a long lighter off the mantel and set fire to the paper, dropping it in the grate only after it is almost entirely consumed by the flame. His back is ramrod straight, informing me that he's feeling no love toward Miss Kate right now. These two abhor each other so much that it makes me nervous—after all, there's a thin line between . . . well, you know.

"Kate, will you let it go for now if I promise to explain it all to you next week?"

She looks confused. Christian meantime has come up behind me. Now he slings his arm around my waist possessively and I hear his voice above me, saturated with iced-over anger.

"Katherine, Anastasia has agreed to become my wife. We'll be announcing our engagement at the party tonight." I can almost feel his smirk.

Kate's face goes white. I mean, absolutely white, even though right now she's heavily tanned from her vacay.

I know how Christian can do psychological torment. I don't like seeing Kate cowed—not strong, confident Kate. I step out of his grasp.

"Is that true, Ana? What the hell? I leave you for two weeks and all this happens?"

I nod, blushing. "It's true, Kate. Christian and I are in love—head over heels and all that—and I've accepted his proposal. I'm so happy, Kate." I squeeze her hand. "It's all good, I promise. That note? It's from the very beginning and it no longer applies."

The door opens and Grace's head pops in, looking searchingly at us, trying, I guess, to assess the situation. Carrick must have told her about Kate's reception of us.

"Everything all right, sweetheart?" She looks directly at her son but Kate answers.

"Everything is fine, Grace." Christian ignores Kate and replies to his mother. "Fine, Mom. We'll be out shortly.

Grace nods gently, her expression slightly suspicious. "Everyone's waiting so don't take too long."

After the door closes, Kate's attention is back on us. "Look, I apologize if I've misinterpreted the situation . . . but you've got to admit this note is pretty clear cut. I still don't understand how I've misconstrued . . . "

She throws her hands up. "But, fine, Ana. As long as you say everything's good. I do want to speak to you," she looks pointedly at Christian and then back at me, "alone and soon. Okay, Ana?"

"Yes," I bob my head quickly. "Next week perhaps? Let's go out now." I look at Christian. He's not letting it go so easily. As if he needed any more reason to dislike Kate. They're too much alike in certain ways, I realize. Their strong, antagonistic feelings about one another make me very agitated . . . for very different reasons.

The three of us leave the room together and head into the living room where our guests await. I try to put on a happy face as I mentally prepare for the next hurdle of the evening.


	11. Part 12

8

8

**A/N**: Something to think about: if E.L. James had named her characters Christian and Ana instead of Edward and Bella, none of you would be here now, no one would have read _Fifty Shades of Grey_, and it would not have been published, in all likelihood. Yet, despite that fact, many of you are resistant to reading anything original on the fanfic site. James and I appear to have had the same idea, probably at about the same time: using Twilight as a template, write an original story and tap into the huge Twilight fan base. Alas, I didn't know about the fanfic site. Hence I am here now, trying to duplicate James' experience and get my work published. I'm asking you to please consider reading my novel _Complements_ and its sequel _Force of Nature_ on this site. The characters are very much like Christian and Ana except I'd bet good money on the fact that you'll like Olivia better than Ana. Not sure about Daniel as he's even darker than Christian in some respects. Come on, people, start following; I need the big numbers.

As for _A Darker Shade of Grey_: I promised to bring you a stronger Ana with more dignity and I have. Some of the scenes required very minor tweaks. What's left undone are such minor changes, it doesn't pay to rewrite them. Hence from here on in, I'll be creating a bit more, rather than reproducing fairly faithfully. But this is the world of _What ifs_, right? So, hang in with me and I'll take you for a ride . . . **********

I heave through the glass lobby door of SIP with the end rush of my adrenaline, and then it abandons me entirely the moment I cross through to the refuge of outside. Leaning both hands on the brick wall of the façade to catch my breath, I know I'm in full view of Christian and Taylor, and thus safe at this point. I stupidly haven't eaten anything today, and my legs are mimicking the San Andreas fault during a temblor. Dimly I'm aware of two dark suits running over to me.

"Ana!" Christian shouts panicked. "What's wrong?"

Taylor is hovering right behind him.

I look at him and can't find my voice. I'm panting and I feel nauseous, desperately trying to regain some control over my body.

"Ana, tell me what's wrong, damn it!"

"Jack," I finally manage to croak out.

"Did he touch you?" he demands, anger flooding through his words.

I nod. "Just once."

I see Christian fire a look back at Taylor and nod. That's all it takes for Taylor to brush past me, heading into the entrance of SIP. Christian swings an arm around my shoulders and guides me over to the SUV. "What happened, Ana? Tell me exactly what that fucker did."

"He threatened me . . . and you, Christian. He read my emails and wants to know where your responses to them are. He touched me inappropriately . . ."

If anger was a color then Christian would be splashed with bloody red. I can see the whites of his eyes as his whole face contorts into a mask of fury and he roars, "I told you to use your Blackberry, damn it, Ana! Do you understand now?" He whips out his phone.

"Barney? Grey. Listen, I need you to go into the SIP server and wipe all of Anastasia's emails to me entirely. Got that? Good. I also want you to go into Jack Hyde's email box and sweep it clean—wipe anything and everything that pertains to me, or Ms. Steele. Do it now and call me once it's done." He stabs in another number. "Roach, Grey. I want Jack Hyde out _no_w. This minute. Send security to get him out of the building or I liquidate the entire company before breakfast. You have more than enough on him to justify his immediate termination. Do I make myself clear? Good. I am at SIP now and I expect to see him escorted off the premises within the half hour."

He turns back to me. Right now, if he weren't holding me up, I'd surely be on the ground. Christian opens the passenger door of the SUV. "Sit down, Ana. Lock the doors and wait for me."

"No, don't go in, Christian, please."

"Ana, do as I say for one fucking time and stay in the car! I need to go in and see to the outcome."

"Please don't do anything stupid."

"Stupid?" he rages. "Do you even know what stupid is? How many times did I tell you to use your Blackberry? How many times did I tell you that Hyde is a sexual predator? How many times did I tell you to eat regularly? You're about to faint right now and I'd wager a good amount on the fact that you haven't eaten all fucking day. Am I correct?"

I roll my eyes and slam the car door on him, locking it. Fine, have at it, Christian. Yes, I am frequently beyond stupid, but he is always beyond ridiculous so we're even. I lean back into the headrest and try to calm myself. When did life become a theater for the absurd? My days used to be very routine and comforting. Ever since I met Christian, it's been one wild and insane ride after another. I wonder how much more I can tolerate before I begin to separate from my sanity.

Minutes tick by interminably. Finally, after about a half hour, Hyde comes slinking out, a cardboard box in his arms. Fortunately, I'm behind dark tinted glass so he can't see me. Immediately behind him follows the building security guard—uh, could have used him an hour ago—with Christian and Taylor bringing up the rear. The cab that was waiting to take Hyde to the airport is still here so Hyde gets into now, his destination radically changed. Christian raps his knuckles on the SUV window for me to open the doors and I comply. He gets into the driver's seat and Taylor hops quickly into the backseat, I suppose because I'm in the front. Thank God that episode is over but there's another on the horizon for me, certainly. The aftermath.

I watch Christian's face as he drives us home: though thoroughly impassive, I know he's seething inside. He doesn't like it when someone dares to touch his valued property and I am his most precious possession, in his mind. He's unable to grasp the concept that no one can own another person.

We reach Escala and Christian pulls over and gets out in front of the building, coming around to open my door. Taylor dips into the driver's seat to park the vehicle in the underground garage. Extending his hand, Christian says quietly, "Come, Ana. You need to eat before you pass out."

I take his hand and we step into the elevator. No words are exchanged but tension is pulsating in the enclosed space. He is truly pissed and I can almost feel the heat rising out of his pores. I hope I can somehow manage to calm him down. Hmm, I have a few ideas.

From the corner of his eye, he looks at me. "Thank God I got there when I did, Ana. I shudder to think wh—"

"Christian," I interrupt, "I can take care of myself, you know. I'm not completely helpless."

"He told us you kicked him in the balls. True?"

I nod, smirking. "Yes. Ray taught me self-defense. I happened to remember it all and it worked quite nicely."

"Good for Ray. Your technique for protecting yourself wouldn't have worked so well if you went to New York with Hyde, though. You do comprehend that now, don't you?"

The elevator doors slide open silently and we're in the penthouse. "No," I toss over my shoulder, "I don't." I head directly into the bedroom to change my clothes and I can feel rather than hear him follow me.

"Allow me to paint you a little picture, Anastasia. You go to New York with Hyde. That night he invites you to dinner—to discuss business, of course. When you step away from the table to use the restroom, he slips Rohypnol into your drink. Less than a half-hour later, you begin to feel dizzy and nauseous. Hyde is very solicitous: he quickly gets the check, pays it, and escorts you to your room, pronto, acting very much the concerned employer. When next you open your eyes, you're alone in your hotel room bed with a throbbing headache and a sore body. Must be all the travel, you think.

"The trip goes well. Hyde behaves himself. When you get back to SIP, he calls you into his office and removes a bunch of 8x10 glossies from a manila envelope, hands them to you. In the photos, there you are in the buff, strapped into a harness, maybe even with a bit in your mouth if he was feeling capricious, your naked posterior high in the air.

"Can you see it, Ana? He tells you that if you don't do what he wants, give him what he wants, he'll mail out the photos: one to your mother, another to your father, your best friend, even Roach, perhaps . . . and, most importantly, me. No opportunity to use your patented self-defense technique. Is the picture clear yet, Ana? Hyde is a sleaze from the word go."

I can feel gravity right now: the blood drains from my face, my stomach slides down and flips, everything inside is pulling down. I know what Christian is saying is the truth: that's what would have happened if Christian hadn't stopped the trip from happening. Still, I can't let him win the whole game. I have to maintain my self-respect.

"If I'd been unfortunate enough for that to occur—and don't be so sure it would have gone down like that, Christian—I'd go straight to Roach and tell him what Hyde did. Then I'd file sexual assault charges against Hyde and let my people know that someone was blackmailing me. He wouldn't win, whatever he did, Christian. But I'd like to believe that I wouldn't trust him enough to leave the dinner table in the first place: I didn't just fall off the turnip truck, you know."

"Perhaps. Still, I'm incredibly relieved that I killed the trip, Ana, and you should be, too. Come on, let's have dinner."

Mrs. Jones outdid herself tonight with baked chicken and Fettuccine Alfredo. I am much hungrier than I realized and scarf it down. For once, I finish dinner before Christian. He's watching me, amused, twirling his glass of wine.

"What?" I ask, swallowing my last bite.

He shakes his head. "It's good to see you eat. It's a rare enough occurrence."

I roll my eyes. Ah, shit. I just can't help it; it's an automatic response to annoying comments.

He smiles wickedly. "Did you just roll your eyes at me, Anastasia?"

"No, I don't think so, Christian. You really should have your own eyes checked soon. You are getting on in age, you know, and apparently starting to have trouble seeing things accurately."

"Very true, but I'm still quite sure of what I saw." He cocks his head, arching his brows suggestively. "Unfortunately, the rules of the game have changed, otherwise I'd take you into the playroom right now . . ."

"Well, we can bend the new rules this one time," I say. I _want _to go into the playroom and he's been gun shy about it since the day I left him. I still remember the look on his face as I, in my anger, skewered him, and it makes me want to cry.

"Mmm, I have a better idea. In the mood for a game of pool?" His expression is downright smug.

"Yes," I say, trying to be nonchalant, "I am. If I win, we go into the playroom again."

"And if I win?"

"Your choice, carte blanche," I whisper, feeling everything south of my navel tighten as I consider the possibilities.

He grins, a wicked shine to his eyes. "Game on, Ms. Steele. Follow me."

**A/N** (My hands-down favorite scene was the pool game—I'll bet many of you agree. Next post I'll try something new as I mentioned above.)


	12. Part 13

**A/N**: What if? What if Christian kept his word when he told Ana that if she broke the contract, she couldn't ever come back, that was it. So in my _what if_, Christian doesn't come begging Ana to return to him. Instead, it's Ana who does the begging/proposing. I promised a stronger Ana but I also want Christian to keep his word and his teeth—isn't that why these books were fun?

****** START *********

Monday night: I've just spent three long days burning in the fires of hell. The indescribable grief I've been immersed in is so horrific that I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. Not even Elena. Well, maybe Elena.

Fresh grief causes physical, emotional, psychological, and even metaphysical pain: these are the new facts I've gained from my gut-ripping agony over losing Christian. I walked out on him on Saturday morning and had to start my new job today. I went through the day on autopilot; I wonder if anyone noticed.

The worst of the searing ache is centered right below my breasts, dead center. Where the heart is located. Now I truly understand why it's called a broken heart. It feels as if it's rent in two, bleeding out, edging toward atrophy and death.

Death, however, is too easy. The body goes on functioning, the pain drags on, getting incrementally better but in such miniscule gradations, it's barely noticeable. It's Monday night and I know I can't go on. Not without Christian in my life. I love him and miss him terribly.

It's about eight o'clock at night when I have this sobering epiphany. At 8:01, I realize I haven't gotten any calls on my cellphone in a long time. Aha, I never diverted my calls back from the Blackberry. Shit! Christian's been getting all my calls.

What's he doing, I wonder? He sent me flowers today, congratulating me on my first day of work. Kind of him. Has he moved on already? Gotten a new sub? No, that's silly. It's only been three days. I reach for my phone and redirect the calls back to it and as soon as I do, the messages start piling up.

Jose! Shit, his show is this week and I don't have a car. How am I going to get there? I suppose I can try to rent a car.

Or I could ask Christian to take me.

Christian has a lot of rules. One of them said if a sub wanted out of the contract, she was free to go . . . but never allowed to return. That one I remembered clearly.

Dare I ask him? I opt for the cowardly route and choose email over telephone call. But, no: I gave back the laptop he gifted me with and Kate took hers away with her so no computer. I can text him, though. So that's what I do.

_Christian,_

_Thanks so much for the beautiful flowers; it was so thoughtful of you to mark my first day with that lovely acknowledgement. Thinking about sending you a thank-you, I just now realized I hadn't redirected my calls from the Blackberry; I hope it didn't cause you any inconvenience._

_I've also just remembered that Jose's show is on Thursday and I haven't yet had time to acquire a new car. I wondered if you might want to accompany me to the show and give me a ride there and back? If this is too much of an imposition, I certainly understand. If not, I'd very much appreciate it, as not only do I need a ride, but I miss seeing you, Christian._

_Let me know._

_Ana_

I hit send before I can have second thoughts: I want to see him; I _need_ to see him.

Staring pathetically at my phone, I will it to break into song, alerting me to a text message but it is stubbornly silent. I rise to my feet from my perch on the floor, and make my way into Kate's room and closet to find something to wear to work tomorrow. Thank God for Kate and her generosity with her clothes—and thank God we wear the same size.

I select a short black skirt, figuring I can pair it with a white silk blouse I have and my black shoes. I scour Kate's closet, looking for a black sweater I can wear over it since the office air conditioning is frigid. Ah, there it is. Just as I am reaching for the sweater, I hear my phone chime. I snatch it up off the dresser and see it's a phone call. Shit! What should I do?

"Hello?"

"Anastasia? It's Christian."

"Hi, Christian. I assume you got my text?"

"I did. I'm calling to offer you back your Audi until such time as you purchase your new car. It's just sitting in the garage at the moment and I can have Taylor deliver it to you as soon as tonight. Would that be of interest to you?"

"No, thank you, Christian. I'm planning to buy a car next week. It's just that I've started a new job, as you know so time has been thin . . . I really just need a ride to Jose's show and I thought you might like to accompany me. I suppose not then?"

"It's probably not a good idea to prolong the separation, Ana." He lowered his voice. "I'm hurting, too. I allowed you to break too many rules and as a result, I became emotionally entangled."

I thought I heard his voice break but surely it was wishful thinking?

"Be that as it may, I will ignore my better judgment and I'll take you to Jose's show. What time shall I pick you up?"

"The show starts at 7:30. What time do we need to leave to get there on time?"

"I'll pick you up at 5:45 on Thursday. Until then, Anastasia."

I hang up the phone and suddenly my appetite comes roaring back. I haven't eaten anything beyond a yogurt and banana for the last 72 hours plus. I manage a cup of soup and a slice of toast for dinner.

The next day I'm hungry again by lunchtime. I walk over to Jack's office. Knocking lightly at the open door, I pop my head in. "Jack, I'm going to grab some lunch. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks, Ana. I have a lunch meeting. Can you stay a little late tonight so we can run through some things?"

I nod. "Absolutely. I do need to leave before six on Thursday, though, just to let you know. A friend of mine is having a gallery show opening that night in Portland."

"No problem, Ana. Thanks."

Feeling immeasurably better than yesterday—it's amazing what just speaking to Christian can do for me—I stroll to the deli to pick up a sandwich and an apple. Passing the coffee shop on my way back to the office, I duck in to get a latte, my newest bad habit, since I haven't been sleeping well at all since Saturday. Perhaps tonight I'll finally get some sleep—I'm going to see him in two days!

Thursday finally rolls around. I selected my outfit carefully on Wednesday night: I had to look good. I found a tight blue skirt—it sits on the hips and is rather short but still has a business-like air about it—and with it I wear a white Oxford linen shirt with three-quarter sleeves. I broke my usual rule about not borrowing shoes and filched Kate's black high heels. I couldn't help myself—I knew these shoes cost more than my share of the condo's monthly maintenance but they look so good and make my legs look killer. I wanted to look my absolute best for Christian; I needed to get him back. Badly.

I left him because he said he couldn't take the whipping off the negotiating table. I'm not turned on by pain nor by being dominated by another. That said, the agony I've experienced since leaving Christian made the sting from the belt pale into complete insignificance. I love Christian Grey so much—enough to give him what he needs from me. I only hope he'll let me break one last rule and take me back.

At 5:30 I'm finished with my work. I slip into the ladies' room. Ugh. I want to throw my pretty shoe at the damn mirror: I look horrible. My eyes are swollen from crying and my skin is so pale—paler than usual even. I've lost at least five pounds over the last few days and there are hollows in my cheeks—so much for looking my absolute best.

I dab on some bronzer and lip gloss and attempt to use some eye liner to distract the eye away from the swelling but it's no use. If only I could wear sunglasses but it's night and indoors so, no. Weird is not sexy.

After giving my hair a quick brush—at least my hair looks good for a change—I spin around, take a deep gulp of air, and head outside. Pushing the glass door open, I immediately see Taylor standing beside the rear door of the SUV. Sitting inside the tinted windows where I can't yet see him is my beautiful guy, the one I need so badly in my life. I throw a prayer to the universe to let me triumph tonight.

Taylor opens the door and there he waits, looking as edible as ever—Christian Grey. I smile at Taylor and slide into the car next to Christian. As soon as Taylor closes the door, Christian starts yelling at me.

"When was the last time you ate, Ana? You look like you've lost ten pounds in the last five days. What's wrong with you, for God's sake?"

"I'm so happy to see you too, Christian. You look well."

"Appearances can be quite deceiving, Anastasia. Tell me, when was the last time you ate a meal?"

I sigh. It's amazing how quickly he lapses right back into his role of ordering me around. He never even got around to saying hello. "I think the last full meal I ate was at your house on Friday night."

His eyes just bug out and it gives me some satisfaction, not sure why since I'm the one starving myself. I just couldn't bring myself to eat, though.

"Were you planning on starving yourself to death?"

I shake my head. "I had no appetite, Christian. I've eaten fruit and yogurt."

"Ana, you left me, not the other way around," he said quietly.

"I know, Christian, I know. But it's not as if I wanted to leave," I whisper, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the tenor of the conversation and Taylor not even three feet away.

"Why don't we stop in to see Jose's show and then I'll take you to dinner? How does that sound?"

"Sounds really good, Christian."

He flies us there in his helicopter as I watch him competently handle the big machine. Whatever other faults he has, ability is not one of them: the man can do just about anything and do it well. It's actually amazing—and annoying, too.

When we finally arrive at the gallery, it's about 7:20 and the place is hopping already. The redheaded woman greeting people at the door says hello to me by name though I've never seen her before in my life. Trying to figure it out, I notice other people staring at me and wonder if it's because I look really horrible. Could it be?

"I'm going to get some wine for us. I'll be right back," Christian says, leaning into me so I can hear him over the din. I nod and scan the large room for Jose, finally spotting him in the corner, holding court.

"Jose! Everything looks so great." "Ana! You made it. Come here, honey." He races over and gives me a bear hug. "Did you come alone?"

"No, Christian is with me." As soon as I say his name, a dark scowl drops over Jose's face. "Listen, I should warn you—"

"Jose," the redhead at the door is yelling to him, "we need you in front for photos."

"Ana, I'll be right back, okay?"

"Sure, Jose, do what you have to do. I'll look around."

Christian rejoins me, handing me a glass of wine and we begin to tour the large room. People are still looking at me. "Christian, do I look strange or something?"

"No, why?"

"People keep looking at me oddly. It's getting really uncomfortable." We reach the end of the large gallery and there is a small alcove room just off the main one. As we enter that room, I see why I am getting so much attention.

Plastered across the entire wall are seven giant portraits of me, both in black and white and color. Every facial expression is represented on the wall. I gape at Christian but he's just staring at the photos, mesmerized.

"I can't believe he did this," I say, taking them all in.

"Excuse me for a moment, Ana," he says and walks back to the front room, stopping at the desk to speak to the person manning it. I return my attention to the photos. I remember Jose taking the shots, of course, but they were supposed to be throwaways, shots to test the lighting and whatever.

"So you're the muse?"

I look over my shoulder to see a young, handsome guy with a head full of blond waves smiling back at me.

"I suppose so . . . though all this," I sweep my arm across the room, "came as a huge surprise to me.

"Well, I can't say I blame him. I'm Chris, by the way," he says, extending his hand.

I take it. "Ana," I smile. Chris seems like a nice, uncomplicated guy.

At that moment Christian returns and sees Chris touch my shoulder and he yanks me away. Chris's smile vanishes and he hastily retreats, mumbling a quick, "Nice to meet you, Ana," and he's gone. No one does intimidation quite as effectively as Christian Grey.

"Let's go," Christian says tersely. "We've seen all the photos and you need to eat."

I'm not ready to leave yet but I suppose I should because we have a long drive back to Seattle and I have work tomorrow. "Okay, I'll say goodbye to Jose."

I quickly find Jose and say my goodbyes, giving him a big hug, and I promise him we'll get together soon; I then rejoin Christian, who looks none too pleased at the display of affection I've shown to Jose. If he's still jealous, that means he still cares, right? Taylor is waiting and we get in the car to drive to the restaurant.

"So, why did you call me, Ana?" We're seated at a rear table in a small, intimate dining room of a local bistro.

"I told you, Christian. I missed you very much and I needed a ride to the show. That's all."

"Okay. I want you to eat a decent dinner tonight and begin to acclimate your stomach to eating again. The last thing I want is for our short-lived relationship to have a permanent negative impact on your life, Ana."

Nodding my assent, I ask, "How have you been, Christian?"

He smirks. "I've been better . . . much better. But I've also been worse. I'll get through it. By the way, thank you for the model plane. I spent the whole damn day Saturday putting it together."

I look into his eyes, hoping to see anguish or sorrow or something . . . but there's nothing. If I ask him to take me back, he'll probably just remind me of his rule. Still, shouldn't I at least give it the old college try? If I don't, I'll regret it forever.

First, I'll eat. I might lose my appetite if he turns me down. So we both sit quietly, listening to the ambient music and eating the dinner—which tasted really good. When I had eaten as much as I could, I put down my fork.

"Christian, you told me once that I was free to break our contract but that once it's broken, it's done. I never signed a contract, though. Does that rule still apply to me?"

He looked up, gazing into my eyes with that penetrating focus he does so well. "What exactly are you asking, Anastasia? Are you asking to come back into the relationship?"

I cast my face down. What am I doing here? Is this what I really want? "Yes, I suppose I am, Christian. When I told you I loved you, I wasn't exaggerating. I'm deeply in love with you and I can't bear the thought of losing you. These past five days have been the worst of my life—easily. None have come even close." My voice has dropped to a whisper.

"Ana," he reaches over and covers my hand with his. "Your protestations of love only make my conviction stronger. I think your leaving me was the best thing for both of us, regardless of how much it hurts right now. I was getting too emotionally involved with you and letting you break all my rules. Those rules have been my mainstay for half of my life, Ana. I'm not nearly ready to let them go.

"And you are definitely not sub material. You need to find a man who's your equal partner and pursue a traditional type of relationship. I'm not that man, Ana. I told you that from the first."

I nod, my face still focused downward so he can't see my imminent breakdown. Tonight was a big mistake; I shouldn't have invited him. "Excuse me," I say, jumping up to escape to the ladies' room. I'm racking my brain, thinking of any way I can get home on my own. I wonder if Jose would consider driving me if I let him stay over? As soon as I reach the restroom, I whip out my phone, tears rushing down my face.

"Jose, it's Ana. What time is your show over?"

"We'll be wrapping up in about forty-five minutes. Why?"

"I know this is a crazy proposition but would you consider driving me back to Seattle tonight? You can stay over at my apartment and I'll take you out for dinner tomorrow night after work. Please, Jose? I don't want to drive back with Christian."

"Did you two have a fight?"

"Not really, Jose. I'd rather not talk about it."

"Okay. Where are you now?"

I give him the name and address of the restaurant.

"I'm going to have Nanette drive over right now to pick you up. Don't worry, honey. You don't have to drive home with him tonight or ever."

"Thanks, Jose," I say, trying not to cry audibly. "See you soon." I disconnect the call, wondering what I should do. I can't wait outside now because it will take at least ten minutes for Nanette to get here. Should I just go tell Christian? I suppose so, though it would be much easier and more satisfying to disappear without explanation.

First, I splash some cold water on my face and and pat it dry, in an effort to collect myself. I wipe off the smeared eyeliner and take in a deep swallow of air. Stepping back into the dining room, I almost gasp: he is sitting there in the soft, dim light and he is just so freaking handsome. My heart lurches in its cavity at the thought that this man was mine and I walked out on him—and now he doesn't want me back. I reach the table and he smiles warmly, squeezing my heart a little bit harder.

I don't sit down. "Christian, thank you for dinner and for taking me to Jose's show. I'm going to say goodnight now. I won't be riding back with you to Seattle."

I can see the surprise flare in his eyes. "How are you getting home, Ana?"

I shake my head, about to say something mean but change my mind. "A friend is giving me a ride, Christian. I wish you well and hope you have a nice life." I spin around and quickly walk out of the restaurant, thankful I didn't break down in front of him. Please God, let Nanette be waiting for me but when I get outside, the only car in front is his SUV, the ever faithful Taylor sitting inside. When he spots me, he jumps out.

"No, Taylor. I'm not driving back with you tonight. Stay put."

"Does Mr. Grey know, Ms. Steele?"

"Yes, Taylor, I told him. I'm just waiting for a friend. By the way, thanks for everything, Taylor." I reach over and give him a kiss before he can react—I have a lot of affection for the stoic Taylor. "I owe you a handkerchief, by the way." At that moment, Christian emerges from the bistro.

"Mr. Grey." Taylor nods and begins to go around to open the opposite car door for him.

He points to my door of the car. "This one will do, Taylor."

"Ms. Steele has informed me she won't be riding home with us, sir."

"Like hell she's won't." His eyes swivel to me. "How do you propose to get home, Ana?"

"I have another ride home, Christian—I told you. Don't do this, please. Just go."

"Who is driving you home, Ana?" His voice drops into that soft, lethal register.

"It's none of your concern, Christian. Just. Go. Home." Anger is my friend; as long as I can stay on game, it will keep the freaking idiotic tears away. And being rejected happens to make me freaking angry.

At that moment Nanette pulls up in a small red sedan. I wave to her and turn to the two men. "My ride. Goodnight, gentlemen. Have a safe trip home."

Turning quickly, I go to get into Nanette's car but I feel him grasp my arm. "What?" I snap.

"Who is driving you back to Seattle, Ana?"

His tone is just this side of not losing it so I answer him. "Who do you think, Christian? Jose, of course."

"And what will happen when you get there?"

"He is staying the night," I say with relish, yanking my arm out of his grasp.

He leans down, his face inches from mine. "That's not going to happen."

"Christian," I drop my voice low so Taylor can't hear me, "you just told me a few minutes ago that you weren't interested in resuming any relationship with me. At this point, I can fuck Jose all night and into the morning and you have nothing to say about it. Comprende?" I think the Spanish is a nice touch seeing as how Jose is Latino.

"I've changed my mind, Ana. Get in the fucking SUV."

Looking into his eyes, I can see there's serious heat there: I'm not sure if it's fury or lust. I am entirely unsure as to what to do. My instincts are screaming at me, like groupies at a concert, to get into Nanette's car but my body, always panting after him like a total slut, is pushing me toward the SUV. I turn away from him to go to Nanette's car but he holds fast to me.

"Christian, I'm going to tell her never mind."

He clearly wasn't expecting me to do that—I can see it in his eyes. He doesn't trust me, though, so he walks over with me to her car.

"Nanette, please forgive me for the trouble and make my sincerest apologies to Jose. Mr. Grey insists I ride home with him, after all. Will you please tell Jose I'll call him tomorrow? And tell him that my invitation for dinner still stands. Okay?"

"Sure, Ana. It's not a big deal. Take care," she says and speeds off.

Christian takes my elbow and steers me back to the SUV and I get in thinking that I really deserve whatever I get for my gross stupidity. Choosing Christian over Jose probably takes the prize for most moronic decision of the year. I can't help it, though. I fucking love him and his body and right now if Taylor wasn't here, I'd rip off his clothes and have him in the car. I smile at the thought.

He gets in the car. "What's funny?"

"A private thought."

"Will you share?"

I lean over and whisper in his ear, "Ripping off your clothes right here was what I was thinking."

His pretty eyes absolutely light up and I know we're going to be okay—on that level, at least. At the end of the day, we always have the mutual lust.


	13. Part 14

9

9

Part 14

It's dark inside the SUV and I can't see Christian's face all that well. What a shame; it's also not helpful to have a meaningful conversation in such conditions. As soon as we're on the road, he begins to speak to me.

"I suppose we're back to square one: negotiating our contract. This time, of course, I'll expect you to sign it."

"Christian, do we have to discuss the particulars right now," I point inconspicuously to Taylor in the front seat.

"Tonight I need to get you home: we both have to work early tomorrow. I suppose we can defer our talk until tomorrow evening."

"Oh . . . I'm having dinner with Jose, in all likelihood. How—"

"Cancel it."

Appalled, I peer through the dark. "I can't do that. It's bad enough I bagged out on him tonight."

"Anastasia, it was you who initiated contact with me. I might also remind you that it was also you who walked out on me. You're really in no position to be calling the shots."

"Calling the shots? I'm merely saying I have an engagement."

"And I'm telling you to cancel it. You have a more pressing engagement with me."

I sigh. Removing my phone from my bag, I call Jose. "Hi, it's Ana."

"Ana? What happened? Are you okay, niña?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Listen, Jose, did Nanette tell you that my dinner invitation still stands?"

"Yes, she did. Do you need me to come, Ana?"

"I don't need you to come, Jose. If you'd like to, though, you're more than welcome. We can catch up."

"In that case, can I take a rain check on it? I have so much paperwork to do in relation to the sales I've already made. You know, someone bought all seven portraits of you, Ana. I sold twenty-nine photographs in one night."

"Wow, that's great, Jose. A rain check it is. I'll call you next week and we'll talk more. Thanks for coming to my rescue tonight, Jose, even though it turned out the way it did. I appreciate it."

"No problem, Ana. Anytime you need a hand, give a holler. Take care, honey."

"Good night, Jose." I disconnect the call and turn towards Christian. "Okay, tomorrow evening it is."

"Good. I'll pick you up at your office at 5:30."

"Oh, shoot. I just remembered that Jack wants to go out for a drink, to celebrate my first week."

"He does, does he? Fine. I'll meet you at the bar. Where will you be?"

"I'll text you the information when I know."

He doesn't touch me at all: no embrace, no caresses, nothing. I'm beginning to think that all the progress I made with him has been entirely expunged: there will be no _more _for me, for us. If that's true, can I really tolerate it, being nothing more to him than a submissive, with no emotional attachment on his part? I don't think so. I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see what he offers. By the time the car pulls up in front of my apartment, my stomach is churning with anxiety.

"Thank you, Christian. I'll see you tomorrow." I start to get out of the car.

"Taylor, remain in the car. I'll see Ms. Steele to her door." He climbs out of the car on the other side and opens the cargo area, removing a large white box, then walks beside me up the walkway. When we reach the front door of the building, he hands me the box.

"No argument, please. I need to be able to contact you if we do resume our relationship, Ana. Your things are inside, including your car keys." He leans over and brushes his lips against mine. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I unlock the door, pushing it open awkwardly because the large box is making it difficult. Once I'm in the apartment, I open the box. Nestled in silver tissue paper are my laptop, my Blackberry, and a new iPad. Wow. I pick it up and start looking through it. Christian has downloaded an entire library of English classics, as well as several hundred songs on the iTunes account. Is he trying to tell me something? Judging from his behavior tonight, I don't think Christian Grey is capable of anything approaching love but he's still mightily jealous of anyone getting near me. I suppose I can convince myself that love is the motivating factor behind the jealousy.

If he wasn't planning on taking me back, why did he bring these things? He knew I wouldn't accept them under any other conditions. Is he playing me?

I was hoping to finally get a good night's sleep but when I fall into bed, exhausted, I still find sleep elusive and troubled when it finally comes.

The next day is insanely busy so the hours fly by and I have no time to think—which is a good thing lately. Jack has back-to-back meetings so by the time we do our update, it's nearly five o'clock. By 5:20, we're finished.

"Are you still up for a drink, Ana?"

"Sure, Jack. Where are we going?"

"To the bar across the street. Their drinks are neat and the prices are good. The music, however, leaves much to be desired—they play all oldies there. It's a 50s-style place."

"Ah, such nostalgia for the fifties," I say, my mind on my personal fifty. "Okay. I'll just clean up my desk and I'll join you there."

"Very good."

I text Christian with the information, and then I attack the mess on my desk. It's nearly six o'clock when I finish in the bathroom and make my way across the street. Immediately outside the front door of SIP, there's a strange looking woman standing there, playing with her hair and staring at me. I try to act normally and ignore her, but for some reason her presence bothers me.

Jack is at the bar with some other SIP people and they're arguing about the fate of the magazine industry. "Ana, what would you like to drink?"

I smile at the knot of people. "I'll have a beer, whatever's on draft."

"Good choice," he says and orders an amber ale, handing it to me with a smile. "On me, Ana. Congrats on a successful first week."

I clink glasses with him. "Thanks, Jack. This job feels like a good fit for me. I hope you agree," I say laughing.

I'm chatting with one of the IT guys—Amos—when I feel him behind me. Jack is glaring at him over my head, a glower contorting his ruddy face. I feel Christian's arm snake around my waist possessively, and his lips are in my hair, as he says loudly enough for others to hear, particularly Jack.

"Hi, baby. Ready to leave?"

"Yes," I nod. "Jack, this is my boyfriend, Christian. Christian, Jack Hyde, my boss."

A snake-oil salesman couldn't have a smarmier smile than the one Jack plasters on his face. "Oh, I remember Ana mentioned an ex-boyfriend or something like that," he's directing his comment exclusively at Christian.

Christian returns the volley with an evil smile. "No longer ex. Ana, we need to leave now."

"Ana, must you go so soon? You've just gotten here."

"I'm sorry, Jack. We made these plans weeks ago. But thank you so much for the drink. I'll see you bright and early on Monday," I say sprightly.

"Yes. Monday morning you're back with me; don't be late."

Christian nearly drags me out of the bar and into the SUV. "Where are we going, my place or yours?"

I shrug. "I guess mine."

"Taylor, take us to Ms. Steele's apartment, please."

"Yes, sir." He pulls the car away smoothly.

"I'm going to fire that SOB. He's after you, Ana."

"Christian, how can you fire him, for God's sake? Do you know people at SIP?"

"You might say that, I suppose."

"What does that mean exactly?"

He looks down his nose at me. "We'll discuss it later," and then turns his attention out the window. He really is a frustrating bastard and he's treating me so coldly. The only affection he's shown me since last night was the fake display in the bar for Jack's sake. I feel like crying.

Taylor edges the car expertly into the only open space in front of my building and hops out to open my car door. Christian gets out on his own and meets me in front.

"Taylor, around ten, I think. If there's any change I'll let you know."

"Very good, sir."

I look at Christian. "You're not staying the night?"

He shakes his head. I whip my head around and keep walking. This reconciliation is not going to happen and the sooner I deal with it, the better for me.

I say nothing until we're in the apartment but once inside, I don't give him a chance to even sit down. I whirl around to face him. "Okay, then, Christian. What's on the table here?"

"A little hostile, aren't we? Did you expect me to fall down on my knees in gratitude that you want to come back to me, Ana?"

"What? I didn't expect anything but a little warmth from you but you're incapable of feeling emotions, aren't you, Christian? I can tell you without even the benefit of discussion that this is not going to happen so call Taylor and tell him to turn around and come get you. Let me just get your things since I won't be needing them after all."

He grabs my arm, arresting my progress. "Just lower those hackles, Anastasia, and let's have a civil conversation. Sit down."

I wrench my arm out of his grip and plop down into a chair, furious now. My fragile self-esteem can't take another hit and the fucker seems intent on delivering one. I know I hurt him badly but it was his own stupid fault. Now it seems he wants to skewer me.

He sits across from me. "First, tell me what you want from me, Ana, with regard to a relationship. Then I'll tell you what I expect to get and we'll take it from there and see if we can come to an agreement."

"For God's sake, Grey, this isn't a fucking business transaction. Why are you such a freak? Do you know nothing about having a normal relationship?"

He's unflappable tonight. His face remains entirely impassive as he patiently repeats, "Tell me what you want, Ana."

I throw my hands up. "I want to love you and it would be really, really super if you returned some of that love. I want to be thrilled to see you, not afraid. I want to have fun, not be punished. I want a boyfriend, Christian. Is that really asking for too much?"

"I think you know it is asking too much from me personally. Perhaps with some other man, no, it's not asking much at all."

"Then why did you stop me from going home with Jose?"

"I didn't want you to do something merely in reaction to being hurt by me. I want you to think carefully about what it is you truly want at this point and time in your life before proceeding."

"Christian," I sigh, already emotionally drained, "I've told you everything already. You pursued me, knowing I wasn't part of your lifestyle. I became interested in you—and who wouldn't? I mean, really. I began to fall in love with you and you refused to promise not to beat me . . . so I left. The pain of losing you was more than I could bear so I contacted you with the intention of reconsidering my position. It's really as uncomplicated as that."

He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Reconsidering? As in accepting the punishments?"

I nod miserably.

"Are there exceptions?"

"I don't know. I'm willing to try everything but if I can't tolerate it, I don't want to be kicked to the curb. You always said it would be no more than I could tolerate. If you stand by that promise, I'll try."

"Will you sign the contract?"

"Yes. But I need to know what I'll get in return and I don't mean material things, Christian."

"What is it that you want to hear, Ana?" His voice is gentle now.

"More. I want more and you promised you'd try. Is that still on the table?"

His eyes are boring into mine, as if he's trying to invade my very soul. I'm squirming under the intense scrutiny and not expecting what comes next. In a strangled whisper, I hear his response. "Yes," he says, and pulls me into his embrace, hugging me tightly and kissing my hair over and over.

So it wasn't just me then. He's a far better actor than I'll ever be. I squeeze him. "I love you, Christian Grey. Will you make love to me?"

He scoops me up as if I'm as light as a kitten and carries me into the bedroom.


	14. A Darker Shade of Grey: One Shady

10

10

**A/N**: I'm back after a long break. Okay, so those of you who read my fanfic know that I wrote it to redeem Ana. Far too many romances follow the Cinderella tale too closely, putting the woman at a disadvantage to the male at every turn: poor, powerless, etc. to the man's affluence, power, and ability to radically change lives. I wanted Ana to be more of an equal to Christian, so I took scenes from the books and reimagined Ana.

But I ran out of things to change and I was busy working on my own novels—by the way, _**Complements**_ is now available on Amazon Kindle if you're interested in Olivia and Daniel. The sequel, _**Inexplicable Reasons **_(formerly _**A Force of Nature**_), will be published next week.

So, now I'm writing a _What If_ fanfic of my own. I actually began this one a while ago. It features Christian and Ana but the story is significantly different. Yes, they meet and have one night together but Ana is scared off by Christian's lifestyle. She gets a fellowship to pursue her Master's degree. Along the way, she accidentally violates the NDA she signed for Christian and he comes after her. Tell me what you think if you care to.

One Shady Character:

The whole thing was meant to be a joke.

I wrote the book as a Christmas gift for my closest friends: it was way too dirty to send to anyone else. My best buds believed it to be pure fiction—and why wouldn't they?— and that was exactly how I planned it all. How many of them would believe that the kinky man in my book was someone I had actually met, the man who took my virginity, who made me an indecent proposal, who wouldn't get out of my head no matter how hard I tried to kick him to the curb?

I had met Christian Grey, gorgeous tycoon-extraordinaire, by pure and accidental chance. At the time, I was in my last year of college, and my friend Mariah had helped me snag an excellent part-time job in an upscale boutique. Trying to get me ready for the job interview—me, the girl who shops at Target (pronouncing it Tar-jay to give it panache)—was a comedy of errors in and of itself.

"Okay," Mariah said, holding up a pair of platform patent-leather high heels, "what designer?"

"Jimmy Chow?"

"Choo. Jimmy Choo—Jimmy Chow's is a restaurant— and, no. They're Louboutins! For God's sake, Ana, pay attention. What about these?" She held up a pair of low, very pointy slingbacks.

"I know this," I yelled. "Those are Manolo Blahniks!"

"Right! There's hope for you yet. Okay, let's move on. What about this skirt?"

And it went on all evening. By the end of the night, I had my upscale designers down pat. Then it was time to try to score some pricey clothes on ebay. For the interview itself, Mariah lent me her Stella McCartney suit and I somehow managed to dupe the owner and snare the job. Woohoo.

It was on a Friday night, just before closing, when he walked in, commanding the small shop without even trying. I was at the register, collating the cash receipts, and filling out my timesheet when the door tinkled open and in strode the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I had never heard of Christian Grey, new to Seattle as I was, so when he handed over his credit card to pay for the pricey necklace he hastily selected, I had no idea who he was. Didn't matter anyway.

He never asked the price but then, so many of our customers don't. Asking the price of items is gauche when you have money to fritter away. The cost of this particular necklace was astonishingly ridiculous at three thousand dollars for costume jewelry, but it was a designer piece. He'd honed right in on the jewelry as soon as he came in and pointed to three different pieces. "May I see those, please?"

Working in the pricey shop for the past two months, I'd managed to acquire some small amount of grace while in the company of affluent, important people . . . so why my knees were knocking together just because I was standing in front of this man was an enduring mystery.

He was wearing an espresso brown suit, so dark it was almost black and elegantly tailored, brown wingtips, crisp white shirt, and a silver tie. Mmm, edible was the first word that sprang to an inquiring mind.

"Yes, of course." I carefully removed each piece from its display, setting them side by side on a black velvet display tray. One was sterling set with onyx and the other two had amethyst stones. All three were very pretty and very expensive.

"Which one do you like?" he asked me, looking up from the jewelry to my face. Wow, his eyes were light and beautiful, fringed as they were by his lush dark lashes. Would he think me rude if I gripped him by the ears, dragged his face to mine, and made out with him over the counter? Shaking my head to dispel the image, I tried to answer his question intelligently, all the while staring at his lips.

"All three are quite stunning," I said, instead. "What color does your wife favor?"

"It's for my sister and she wears a lot of pinks and purples; I guess the amethyst then?"

"Probably a sure bet if purple's a favorite color."

"Yes, I think this one," he pointed to the nicer of the two. "Please giftwrap it; I'm running late and I almost forgot her birthday," he said as he handed me his credit card.

"Of course," I said, keeping my voice neutral when my body was imploding inward like a controlled demolition. I rang up the sale and he signed the slip quickly. I watched him closely: this guy was too damned gorgeous and he was near enough to me that I could smell his cologne or aftershave and it was, like, sublime. He was tall too, with thick, dark hair and light eyes. But never mind what he had; what he didn't have was a wedding band on his finger. Another woohoo.

Yeah, right, I told myself. Why would a man who looked like he did and could spend three grand without batting an eye have any interest in a mousy shop girl? I went to the other counter to wrap the box and selected the store's signature silver and white paper and finished it with a purple ribbon.

"Here you are, sir. I hope your sister enjoys the necklace."

He looked at me long and hard when I said that. Did I say something wrong?

"Thank you. I'm sure my sister will love it. I appreciate your assistance." He began to leave the store but just as he reached the door, he turned his head. "What's your name, by the way?"

My face got hot so I knew I was blushing to my hair roots. "Ana . . . Anastasia, actually. Anastasia Steele."

"Pretty name. Thank you again, Ms. Steele," he said, smiling for the first time and he sauntered off.

I wrote the book because it was fun; I wrote the book to exorcise him from my system; I wrote the book because I had no extra money for Christmas gifts for my friends. I didn't consider it a violation of the NDA he had me sign, first, because the book was written as fiction with no real names used, and second, the book was supposed to be read only by my friends, with no wider circulation than that one small circle of women.

What ended up happening was something I could never in a million years have predicted. I mean, come on: how could he hold that against me? But he very much was holding it against me and though I doubted he'd really drag me through court over it, he was planning on making me pay, one way or another.

He was the man who took my virginity. From the first moment I saw him in the shop—Archipelago—I wanted him. Badly. Still, I didn't believe I'd have a ghost of a chance. The man was perfection in every way: looks, grooming, voice, and wallet. I was vastly inferior with my wild hair, my designer knock-offs (for the most part), and my pathetic bank account. He had it all over me—just call me Cinderella.

Somehow, though, he was attracted to me. Before too long, I found myself in his penthouse apartment, hoping he'd try to seduce me. To say it didn't go as swimmingly as it did in my feverish imagination would be vastly understating the situation.

We were sitting in his ridiculously huge, luxuriously appointed room, more along the order of a freaking auditorium than a person's living room. The penthouse apartment sits high in the sky of Seattle, like a snow globe hovering in the clouds, looking down onto the city skyline. Well into my second glass of vino, I was already significantly tipsy—but it was all good, since he'd very recently had me sign a nondisclosure agreement and subsequently introduced me to his medieval torture chamber he charmingly called his _playroom_.

The evening had begun so well, too: the romantic helicopter ride to see Seattle by night, where I got to watch Christian as a competent and affable pilot; his gallant assurances that if I wanted to leave at any time, his chauffeur was on stand-by, ready to whisk me back home on a moment's notice; Christian playing the welcoming host, serving me wine and cheese and scintillating conversation. In my version of the play script, this is when he'd begin to seduce me and we'd end up in bed, having the most incredible, mindbending sex ever and, afterward, I'd officially be dating the most eligible bachelor, possibly on earth.

Instead I was sitting here, a tad intoxicated and a bit queasy, trying to digest his indecent proposal.

"And if I say no?"

"That's fine," he said, his face impassive.

"But we won't have any kind of relationship then?"

"Correct."

"Why?  
"It's the only type of relationship I'm interested in."

"Why?" I persisted, possibly a bit drunkenly and definitely lots disappointed.

"I've just told you. It's how I'm made, Anastasia."

"I'd have to agree to all or most of these things on the list?" He'd shown me a paper enumerating a virtual cornucopia of deviant sex acts to approve or veto.

"Not all—just the ones you're comfortable doing."

"What if I don't know whether or not I'm comfortable? Can I change my mind mid-contract?"

"I'm sure you have an idea as to whether or not you are tolerant of a given act."

"Uh, not really, Christian."

"When you've had sex, were there things you didn't like doing?"

I don't answer but I feel the blush creeping up, insidious and unstoppable. Christian misinterprets it.

"If a relationship of this sort is to work, both parties must be completely honest. You have to tell me what you like and dislike, Anastasia."

"I really don't know, Christian. That's the problem."

"You don't know what you like or don't like during sex?"

Here goes: "I've never had sex so I haven't a clue."

The look of shock that descends over his face is priceless and nearly comical. Once the comprehension is complete, that shock begins to visibly morph into anger. "Are you telling me you're a virgin?" He's incredulous.

I nod.

"At twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, you're still a virgin?" Now he's yelling.  
Again, I nod, cringing at his volume. What the hell is his problem?

"Why didn't you tell me, for God's sake?"

I shrugged nervously, growing panicked at his reaction. "It never came up. I don't normally go around talking about my sex life with everyone I meet."

"Well, you certainly know a lot more about mine now!" He stood and began pacing the floor in front of me, his hand fisting at the nape of his neck. I didn't like the look of his body language.

"Christian," I said, licking my lips nervously, "how the hell was I supposed to know what you were about to share with me? It's not everyday that one meets a man who gets his kicks tying up and hurting women. I'm sorry I didn't warn you off me . . . but _you_ pursued _me_ . . . and I liked you . . . and I came here tonight intending to spend the night with you." My voice trailed off pathetically.

When he turned to face me, I swore I could feel the heat of his ire. "First of all, I do not get my kicks hurting women: it's a lifestyle choice and the women who share it with me are of the same inclination. You are the first one I've ever propositioned who wasn't part of the lifestyle. Therein lies my mistake.

"But, Anastasia, may I ask how you managed to stay a virgin? You're beautiful, you're a consenting adult, you've spent the last four years around testosterone-fueled college boys—I don't get it. Was there no one who made you hot and bothered enough to pull up your dress?"

At least he thinks I'm beautiful, I thought with some small satisfaction, as I feel outright flames scorching my face—my cheeks must have been scarlet at that point. It was time to leave.

"Christian, I'm sorry if I've mislead you in any way; it wasn't intentional, I assure you. I suppose I should leave now." I reached for my bag at my feet and began to rise, unsure as to how I was going to get home. Did I really want his chauffeur to drive me?

As soon as I was vertical, he was right in front of me. "Don't go," he whispered. "I'd like you to stay."

"But you're angry with me . . . though I'm not sure why."

"I'm not angry with you, Anastasia; I'm angry at myself for making incorrect assumptions about you, predicated on nothing much." He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his, I'd noticed. "I want you to spend the night with me."

"But what about your medieval torture chamber?"

He smirked. "It's not a torture chamber and what about it?"

"Are you expecting me to go in there?"

"No, I'm asking you to spend the night with me, Ana. Just you," he said, opening the top button of my shirt, "me," and the next button, "and the bed. What do you say?"

"Yes," I said, my voice barely audible. I might as well admit it: I desperately wanted this man.

Seeing him without clothes made me pant even harder for him. The man was an exquisite specimen of the human male, from his head down to his feet. Instead of being nervous, I find myself eager to get the show on the road, but he's taking his time, ever so slowly removing my clothes first and only later his own. By the time he's actually there, between my legs, ready to take my long-prized virginity, I'm beyond coherence—and I'm pretty sure he knows it.

I wrote the book because it ended far too soon, when I refused to agree to his terms, to become essentially a slave to his every whim. I wanted him on my terms; he wanted me on his. Never the twain shall meet.

My book was jokingly called _Three and a Half Weeks_, after the movie _Nine and a Half Weeks_, but modified since that's how long our relationship limped along, propelled by nothing more than unadulterated lust. I briefly considered calling it _The Story of A_ but that would have been too obvious, I think.


End file.
